v 

•' 


.,•-.;, 


0.  Henry  in  Ashevillc.   A  hitherto  unpublished  snapshot 


WHIRLIGIGS 


BY 
O.  HENRY 

Author  of  "  The  Four  Million,"   "  The  Voice  of  the 

City,"   "  The  Trimmed  Lamp,"    "  Strictly 

Business,"  "  Sixes  and  Sevens,"  Etc. 


PTTBLISHED  BT 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

FOR 

REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  CO. 

1913 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYBIGHT,   1910,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE  &  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 


I.  The  World  and  the  Door      ...  3 

II.  The  Theoiy  and  the  Hound           .         .  22 

III.  The  Hypotheses  of  Failure,  ...  37 

IV.  Galloway's  Code  .....  55 
V.  A  Matter  of  Mean  Elevation          .         .  66 

VI.     "Girl" 81 

VII.  Sociology  in  Serge  and  Straw         .         .  89 

VIII.  The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief  .  100 

IX.  The  Many  Month  of  May   .          .         .116 

X.  A  Technical  Error        ....  125 

XI.  Suite  Homes  and  ^Their  Romance           .  135 

XII.  The  Whirligig  of  Life           ...  143 

XIII.  A  Sacrifice  Hit 152 

XIV.  The  Roads  We  Take  .          .         .          .159 
XV.  A  Blackjack  Bargainer          .          .         .  166 

XVI.  The  Song  and  the  Sergeant  .  188 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACE 

XVII.  One  Dollar's  Worth     ....  198 

XVIII.  A  Newspaper  Story      .         .         .         .  209 

XIX.  Tommy's  Burglar         .         .          .  £15 

XX.  A  Chaparral  Christmas  Gift          „         .  g£3 

XXI.  A  Little  Local  Colour          .         .         .231 

XXII.  Georgia's  Ruling          ....  240 

XXIII.  Blind  Man's  Holiday  «59 

XXIV.  Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches          .  288 


WHIRLIGIGS 


I 

THE  WORLD  AND  THE  DOOR 

A  FAVOURITE  dodge  to  get  your  story  read  by  the 
public  is  to  assert  that  it  is  true,  and  then  add  that  Truth 
is  stranger  than  Fiction.  I  do  not  know  if  the  yarn  I 
am  anxious  for  you  to  read  is  true;  but  the  Spanish  purser 
of  the  fruit  steamer  El  Carrero  swore  to  me  by  the  shrine 
of  Santa  Guadalupe  that  he  had  the  facts  from  the  U.  S. 
vice-consul  at  La  Paz  —  a  person  who  could  not  possibly 
have  been  cognizant  of  half  of  them. 

As  for  the  adage  quoted  above,  I  take  pleasure  in  punc 
turing  it  by  affirming  that  I  read  in  a  purely  fictional 
story  the  other  day  the  line:  "  'Be  it  so,'  said  the  police 
man."  Nothing  so  strange  has  yet  cropped  out  in  Truth. 

When  H.  Ferguson  Hedges,  millionaire  promoter, 
investor  and  man-about-New-York,  turned  his  thoughts 
upon  matters  convivial,  and  word  of  it  went  "down  the 
line,"  bouncers  took  a  precautionary  turn  at  the  Indian 
clubs,  waiters  put  ironstone  china  on  his  favourite  tables, 
cab  drivers  crowded  close  to  the  curbstone  in  front  of 
all-night  cafes,  and  careful  cashiers  in  his  regular  haunts 
charged  up  a  few  bottles  to  his  account  by  way  of  preface 
and  introduction. 

3 


4  Whirligigs 

As  a  money  power  a  one-millionaire  is  of  small  account 
in  a  city  where  the  man  who  cuts  your  slice  of  beef  behind 
the  free-lunch  counter  rides  to  \vork  in  his  own  automobile. 
But  Hedges  spent  his  money  as  lavishly,  loudly  and 
showily  as  though  he  were  only  a  clerk  squandering  a 
week's  wages.  And,  after  all,  the  bartender  takes  no 
interest  in  your  reserve  fund.  He  would  rather  look  you 
up  on  his  cash  register  than  in  Bradstreet. 

On  the  evening  that  the  material  allegation  of  facts 
begins,  Hedges  was  bidding  dull  care  begone  in  the  com 
pany  of  five  or  six  good  fellows  -  -  acquaintances  and 
friends  who  had  gathered  in  his  wake. 

Among  them  were  two  younger  men  —  Ralph  Merriam, 
a  broker,  and  Wade,  his  friend. 

Two  deep-sea  cabmen  were  chartered.  At  Columbus 
Circle  they  hove  to  long  enough  to  revile  the  statue  of  the 
great  navigator,  unpatriotically  rebuking  him  for  having 
voyaged  in  search  of  land  instead  of  liquids.  Midnight 
overtook  the  party  marooned  in  the  rear  of  a  cheap 
cafe  far  uptown. 

Hedges  was  arrogant,  overriding  and  quarrelsome. 
He  was  burly  and  tough,  iron-gray  but  vigorous,  "good" 
for  the  rest  of  the  night.  There  was  a  dispute  —  about 
nothing  that  matters  —  and  the  five-fingered  words  were 
passed  —  the  words  that  represent  the  glove  cast  into 
the  lists.  Merriam  played  the  r61e  of  the  verbal 
Hotapur. 

Hedges  rose  quickly,  seized  his  chair,  swung  it  once 
and  smashed  wildly  down  at  Merriam's  head.  Merriam 


dodged,  drew  a  small  revolver  and  shot  Hedges  in  the 
chest.  The  leading  roysterer  stumbled,  fell  in  a  wry 
heap,  and  lay  still. 

Wade,  a  commuter,  had  formed  that  habit  of  prompt 
ness.  He  juggled  Merriam  out  a  side  door,  walked  him  to 
the  corner,  ran  him  a  block  and  caught  a  hansom.  They 
rode  five  minutes  and  then  got  out  on  a  dark  corner 
and  dismissed  the  cab.  Across  the  street  the  lights  of 
a  small  saloon  betrayed  its  hectic  hospitality. 

"Go  in  the  back  room  of  that  saloon,"  said  Wade, 
"  and  wait.  I'll  go  find  out  what's  doing  and  let  you  know. 
You  may  take  two  drinks  while  I  am  gone  —  no  more." 

At  ten  minutes  to  one  o'clock  Wade  returned. 

"Brace  up,  old  chap,"  he  said.  "The  ambulance  got 
there  just  as  I  did.  The  doctor  says  he's  dead.  You 
may  have  one  more  drink.  You  let  r.ie  run  this  thing 
for  you.  You've  got  to  skip.  I  don't  believe  a  chair 
is  legally  a  deadly  weapon.  You've  get  to  make  tracks, 
that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Merriam  complained  of  the  cold  querulously,  and 
asked  for  another  drink.  "Did  you  notice  what  big 
veins  he  had  on  the  back  of  his  h.-nd^?"  he  said.  "I 
never  could  stand  —  I  never  could " 

"Take  one  more,"  said  Wade,  "and  then  come  on. 
I'll  see  you  through." 

Wade  kept  his  promise  so  \vell  that  at  eleven  o'clock 
the  next  morning  Merriam,  with  a  new  suit  case  full  of 
new  clothes  and  hair-brushes,  stepped  quietly  on  board 
a  little  500-ton  fruit  steamer  at  an  East  River  pie*, ,  The 


6  Whirligigs 

vessel  had  brought  the  season's  first  cargo  of  limes  from 
Port  Limon,  and  was  homeward  bound.  Merriam  had  his 
bank  balance  of  $2,800  in  his  pocket  in  large  bills,  and 
brief  instructions  to  pile  up  as  much  water  as  he  could 
between  himself  and  New  York.  There  was  no  time  for 
anything  more. 

From  Port  Limon  Merriam  worked  down  the  coast 
by  schooner  and  sloop  to  Colon,  thence  across  the  isthmus 
to  Panama,  where  he  caught  a  tramp  bound  for  Callao 
and  such  intermediate  ports  as  might  tempt  the  discursive 
skipper  from  his  course. 

It  was  at  La  Paz  that  Merriam  decided  to  land  —  La 
Paz  the  Beautiful,  a  little  harbourless  town  smothered 
in  a  living  green  ribbon  that  banded  the  foot  of  a  cloud- 
piercing  mountain.  Here  the  little  steamer  stopped 
to  tread  water  while  the  captain's  dory  took  him 
ashore  that  he  might  feel  the  pulse  of  the  cocoanut 
market.  Merriam  went  too,  with  his  suit  case,  and 
remained. 

Kalb,  the  vice-consul,  a  Grseco-Armenian  citizen  of 
the  United  States,  born  in  Hessen-Darmstadt,  and  edu 
cated  in  Cincinnati  ward  primaries,  considered  all  Ameri 
cans  his  brothers  and  bankers.  He  attached  himself 
to  Merriam's  elbow,  introduced  him  to  every  one  in  La 
Paz  who  wore  shoes,  borrowed  ten  dollars  and  went 
back  to  his  hammock. 

There  was  a  little  wooden  hotel  in  the  edge  of  a  banana 
grove,  facing  the  sea,  that  catered  to  the  tastes  of  the 
few  foreigners  that  had  dropped  out  of  the  world  into  the 


The  World  and  the  Door  7 

tristc  Peruvian  town.  At  Ivalb's  introductory:  "Shake 

hands  with ,"  he  had  obediently  exchanged  manual 

salutations  with  a  German  doctor,  one  French  and  two 
Italian  merchants,  and  three  or  four  Americans  who 
were  spoken  of  as  gold  men,  rubber  men,  mahogany  men 
—  anything  but  men  of  living  tissue. 

After  dinner  Merriam  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  broad  front 
galeria  with  Bibb,  a  Vermonter  interested  in  hydraulic 
mining,  and  smoked  and  drank  Scotch  "smoke."  The 
moonlit  sea,  spreading  infinitely  before  him,  seemed  to 
separate  him  beyond  all  apprehension  from  his  old  life. 
The  horrid  tragedy  in  which  he  had  played  such  a  disas 
trous  part  now  began,  for  the  first  time  since  he  stole  on 
board  the  fruiter,  a  wretched  fugitive,  to  lose  its  sharper 
outlines.  Distance  lent  assuagement  to  his  view.  Bibb 
had  opened  the  flood-gates  of  a  stream  of  long-dammed 
discourse,  overjoyed  to  have  captured  an  audience  that 
had  not  suffered  under  a  hundred  repetitions  of  his  views 
and  theories. 

"One  year  more,"  said  Bibb,  "and  I'll  go  back  to 
God's  country.  Oh,  I  know  it's  pretty  here,  and  you 
get  dolce  far  niente  handed  to  you  in  chunks,  but  this 
country  wasn't  made  for  a  white  man  to  live  in.  You've 
got  to  have  to  plug  through  snow  now  and  then,  and  see 
a  game  of  baseball  and  wear  a  stiff  collar  and  have  a 
policeman  cuss  you.  Still,  La  Paz  is  a  good  sort  of  a 
pipe-dreamy  old  hole.  And  Mrs.  Conant  is  here.  When 
any  of  us  feels  particularly  like  jumping  into  the  sea  we 
rush  around  to  her  house  and  propose.  It's  nicer  to  be 


8  Whirligigs 

rejected  by  Mrs.  Conant  than  it  is  to  be  drowned.  And 
they  say  drowning  is  a  delightful  sensation." 

"Many  like  her  here?"  asked  Merriam. 

"Not  anywhere,"  said  Bibb,  with  a  comfortable  sigh. 
"She's  the  only  white  woman  in  La  Paz.  The  rest 
range  from  a  dappled  dun  to  the  colour  of  a  b-flat  piano 
key.  She's  been  here  a  year.  Comes  from  —  well,  you 
know  how  a  woman  can  talk  —  ask  'em  to  say  '  string ' 
and  they'll  say  'crow's  foot'  or  'cat's  cradle.'  Some 
times  you'd  think  she  was  from  Oshkosh,  and  again  from 
Jacksonville,  Florida,  and  the  next  day  from  Cape  Cod." 

"Mystery?"  ventured  Merriam. 

"M  —  well,  she  looks  it;  but  her  talk's  translucent 
enough.  But  that's  a  woman.  I  suppose  if  the  Sphinx 
were  to  begin  talking  she'd  merely  say:  'Goodness  me! 
more  visitors  coming  for  dinner,  and  nothing  to  eat  but  the 
sand  which  is  here.'  But  you  won't  think  about  that  when 
you  meet  her,  Merriam.  You'll  propose  to  her  too." 

To  make  a  hard  story  soft,  Merriam  did  meet  her  and 
propose  to  her.  He  found  her  to  be  a  woman  in  black 
with  hair  the  colour  of  a  bronze  turkey's  wings,  and 
mysterious,  remembering  eyes  that  —  well,  that  looked  as 
if  she  might  have  been  a  trained  nurse  looking  on  when 
Eve  was  created.  Her  words  and  manner,  though,  were 
translucent,  as  Bibb  had  said.  She  spoke,  vaguely,  of 
friends  in  California  and  some  of  the  lower  parishes  in 
Louisiana.  The  tropical  climate  and  indolent  life  suited 
her;  she  had  thought  of  buying  an  orange  grove  later  on; 
La  Paz,  all  in  all,  charmed  her. 


The  World  and  the  Door  9 

Mcrriam's  courtship  of  the  Sphinx  lasted  three  months, 
although  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  courting  her.  He 
was  using  her  as  an  antidote  for  remorse,  until  he  found, 
too  late,  that  he  had  acquired  the  habit.  During  that  time 
he  had  received  no  news  from  home.  Wade  did  not  know 
where  he  was;  and  he  was  not  sure  of  Wade's  exact 
address,  and  was  afraid  to  write.  He  thought  he  had 
better  let  matters  rest  as  they  were  for  a  while. 

One  afternoon  he  and  Mrs.  Conant  hired  two  ponies 
and  rode  out  along  the  mountain  trail  as  far  as  the  little 
cold  river  that  came  tumbling  down  the  foothills.  There 
they  stopped  for  a  drink,  and  Merriam  spoke  his  piece  — 
he  proposed,  as  Bibb  had  prophesied. 

Mrs.  Conant  gave  him  one  glance  of  brilliant  tenderness, 
and  then  her  face  took  on  such  a  strange,  haggard  look 
that  Merriam  was  shaken  out  of  his  intoxication  and 
back  to  his  senses. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Florence,"  he  said,  releasing  her 
hand;  "but  I'll  have  to  hedge  on  part  of  what  I  said.  I 
can't  ask  you  to  marry  me,  of  course.  I  killed  a  man 
in  New  York  —  a  man  who  was  my  friend  —  shot  him 
down  —  in  quite  a  cowardly  manner,  I  understand.  Of 
course,  the  drinking  didn't  excuse  it.  Well,  I  couldn't 
resist  having  my  say;  and  I'll  always  mean  it.  I'm  here 
as  a  fugitive  from  justice,  and  —  I  suppose  that  ends 
our  acquaintance." 

Mrs.  Conant  plucked  little  leaves  assiduously  from  the 
low-hanging  branch  of  a  lime  tree. 

"I  suppose  so,"  «he  said,  in  low  and  oddly  uneven 


10  Whirligigs 

tones;  "but  that  depends  upon  you.  I'll  be  as  honest  as 
you  were.  I  poisoned  my  husband.  I  ana  a  self-made 
widow.  A  man  cannot  love  a  murderess.  So  I  suppose 
that  ends  our  acquaintance." 

She  looked  up  at  him  slowly.  His  face  turned  a  little 
pale,  and  he  stared  at  her  blankly,  like  a  deaf-and-dumb 
man  who  was  wondering  what  it  was  all  about. 

She  took  a  swift  step  toward  him,  with  stiffened  arms 
and  eyes  blazing. 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that!"  she  cried,  as  though  she 
were  in  acute  pain.  "Curse  me,  or  turn  your  back 
on  me,  but  don't  look  that  way.  Am  I  a  woman  to  be 
beaten  ?  If  I  could  show  you  —  here  on  my  arms,  and 
on  my  back  are  scars  —  and  it  has  been  more  than  a  year 
—  scars  that  he  made  in  his  brutal  rages.  A  holy  nun 
would  have  risen  and  struck  the  fiend  down.  Yes,  I 
killed  him.  The  foul  and  horrible  words  that  he  hurled 
at  me  that  last  day  are  repeated  in  my  ears  every  night 
when  I  sleep.  And  then  came  his  blows,  and  the  end  of 
my  endurance.  I  got  the  poison  that  afternoon.  It 
was  his  custom  to  drink  every  night  in  the  library  before 
going  to  bed  a  hot  punch  made  of  rum  and  wine.  Only 
from  my  fair  hands  would  he  receive  it  —  because  he  knew 
the  fumes  of  spirits  always  sickened  me.  That  night 
when  the  maid  brought  it  to  me  I  sent  her  downstairs 
on  an  errand.  Before  taking  him  his  drink  I  went  to  my 
little  private  cabinet  and  poured  into  it  more  than  a  tea- 
spoonful  of  tincture  of  aconite  —  enough  to  kill  three 
men,  so  I  had  learned.  I  had  drawn  $6,000  that  I  had 


The  World  and  the  Door  11 

in  bank,  and  with  that  and  a  few  things  in  a  satchel 
I  left  the  house  without  any  one  seeing  me.  As  I  passed 
the  library  I  heard  him  stagger  up  and  fall  heavily  on  a 
couch.  I  took  a  night  train  for  New  Orleans,  and  from 
there  I  sailed  to  the  Bermudas.  I  finally  cast  anchor 
in  La  Paz.  And  now  what  have  you  to  say?  Can  you 
open  your  mouth?" 

Merriam  came  back  to  life. 

"Florence,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I  want  you.  I  don't 
care  what  you've  done.  If  the  world " 

"Ralph,"  she  interrupted,  almost  with  a  scream,  "be 
my  world!" 

Her  eyes  melted;  she  relaxed  magnificently  and  swayed 
toward  Merriam  so  suddenly  that  he  had  to  jump  to 
catch  her. 

Dear  me!  in  such  scenes  how  the  talk  runs  into  artificial 
prose.  But  it  can't  be  helped.  It's  the  subconscious 
smell  of  the  footlights'  smoke  that's  in  all  of  us.  Stir 
the  depths  of  your  cook's  soul  sufficiently  and  she  will 
discourse  in  Bulwer-Lyttonese. 

Merriam  and  Mrs.  Conant  were  very  happy.  He 
announced  their  engagement  at  the  Hotel  Orilla  del  Mar. 
Eight  foreigners  and  four  native  Astors  pounded  his  back 
and  shouted  insincere  congratulations  at  him.  Pedrito, 
the  Castilian-mannered  barkeep,  was  goaded  to  extra 
duty  until  his  agility  would  have  turned  a  Boston  cherry- 
phosphate  clerk  a  pale  lilac  with  envy. 

They  were  both  very  happy.  According  to  the  strange 
mathematics  of  the  god  of  mutual  affinity,  the  shadows 


12  Whirligigs 

that  clouded  their  pasts  when  united  became  only  half 
as  dense  instead  of  darker.  They  shut  the  world  out 
and  bolted  the  doors.  Each  was  the  other's  world.  Mrs. 
Conant  lived  again.  The  remembering  look  left  her  eyes 
Merriam  was  with  her  every  moment  that  was  possible. 
On  a  little  plateau  under  a  grove  of  palms  and  calabash 
trees  they  were  going  to  build  a  fairy  bungalow.  They 
were  to  be  married  in  two  months.  Many  hours  of  the 
day  they  had  their  heads  together  over  the  house  plans. 
Their  joint  capital  would  set  up  a  business  in  fruit  or 
woods  that  would  yield  a  comfortable  support.  "Good 
night,  my  world,"  would  say  Mrs.  Conant  every  evening 
when  Merriam  left  her  for  his  hotel.  They  were  very 
happy.  Their  love  had,  circumstantially,  that  element 
of  melancholy  in  it  that  it  seems  to  require  to  attain 
its  supremest  elevation.  And  it  seemed  that  their  mutual 
great  misfortune  or  sin  was  a  bond  that  nothing  could 
sever. 

One  day  a  steamer  hove  in  the  offing.  Bare-legged  and 
bare-shouldered  La  Paz  scampered  down  to  the  beach, 
for  the  arrival  of  a  steamer  was  their  loop -the -loop, 
circus,  Emancipation  Day  and  four-o'clock  tea. 

When  the  steamer  was  near  enough,  wrise  ones  pro 
claimed  that  she  was  the  Pajaro,  bound  up-coast  from 
Callao  to  Panama. 

The  Pajaro  put  on  brakes  a  mile  off  shore.  Soon  a 
boat  came  bobbing  shoreward.  Merriam  strolled  down 
on  the  beach  to  look  on.  In  the  shallow  water  the  Carib 
sailors  sprang  out  and  dragged  the  boat  with  a  mighty 


The  World  and  the  Door  13 

rush  to  the  firm  shingle.  Out  climbed  the  purser,  the 
captain  and  two  passengers,  ploughing  their  way  through 
the  deep  sand  toward  the  hotel.  Merriam  glanced  toward 
them  with  the  mild  interest  due  to  strangers.  There  was 
something  familiar  to  him  in  the  walk  of  one  of  the  pas 
sengers.  He  looked  again,  and  his  blood  seemed  to  turn 
to  strawberry  ice  cream  in  his  veins.  Burly,  arrogant, 
debonair  as  ever,  II.  Ferguson  Hedges,  the  man  he  had 
killed,  was  coining  toward  him  ten  feet  away. 

When  Hedges  saw  Merriam  his  face  flushed  a  dark 
red.  Then  he  shouted  in  his  old,  bluff  way:  "Hello, 
Merriam.  Glad  to  see  you.  Didn't  expect  to  find  you 
out  here.  Quinby,  this  is  my  old  friend  Merriam,  of 
New  York  —  Merriam,  Mr.  Quinby." 

Merriam  gave  Hedges  and  then  Quinby  an  ice-cold  hand. 

"Br-r-r-r!"  said  Hedges.  "But  you've  got  a  frapped 
flipper!  Man,  you're  not  well.  You're  as  yellow  as  a 
Chinaman.  Malarial  here?  Steer  us  to  a  bar  if  there 
is  such  a  thing,  and  let's  take  a  prophylactic." 

Merriam,  still  half  comatose,  led  them  toward  the 
Hotel  Orilla  del  Mar. 

"Quinby  and  I,"  explained  Hedges,  puffing  through 
the  slippery  sand,  "are  looking  out  along  the  coast  for 
some  investments.  We've  just  come  up  from  Concepcidn 
and  Valparaiso  and  Lima.  The  captain  of  this  sub 
sidized  ferry  boat  told  us  there  was  some  good  picking 
around  here  in  silver  mines.  So  we  got  off.  Now, 
where  is  that  cafe,  Merriam  ?  Oh,  in  this  portable  soda- 
water  pavilion  ?" 


14  Whirligigs 

Leaving  Quinby  at  the  bar,  Hedges  drew  Merriam 
fcside. 

"Now,  what  does  this  mean?"  he  said,  with  gruff 
kindness.  "Are  you  sulking  about  that  fool  row  we  had  ?" 

"I  thought,"  stammered  Merriam  —  "I  heard — they 
told  me  you  were  —  that  I  had " 

"Well,  you  didn't,  and  I'm  not,"  said  Hedges.  "That 
fool  young  ambulance  surgeon  told  Wade  I  was  a  can 
didate  for  a  coffin  just  because  I'd  got  tired  and  quit 
breathing.  I  laid  up  in  a  private  hospital  for  a  month; 
but  here  I  am,  kicking  as  hard  as  ever.  Wade  and  I 
tried  to  find  you,  but  couldn't.  Now,  Merriam,  shake 
hands  and  forget  it  all.  I  was  as  much  to  blame  as  you 
were;  and  the  shot  really  did  me  good  —  I  came  out  of 
the  hospital  as  healthy  and  fit  as  a  cab  horse.  Come  on; 
that  drink's  waiting." 

"Old  man,"  said  Merriam,  brokenly,  "I  don't  know 
how  to  thank  you  —  I  —  well,  you  know  — 

"Oh,  forget  it,"  boomed  Hedges.  "Quinby'll  die  of 
thirst  if  we  don't  join  him." 

Bibb  was  sitting  on  the  shady  side  of  the  gallery  waiting 
for  the  eleven-o'clock  breakfast.  Presently  Merriam 
came  out  and  joined  him.  His  eye  was  strangely 
bright. 

"Bibb,  my  boy,"  said  he,  slowly  waving  his  hand,  "do 
you  see  those  mountains  and  that  sea  and  sky  and  sun 
shine  ?  —  they're  mine,  Bibbsy  —  all  mine." 

"You  go  in,"  said  Bibb,  "and  take  eight  grains  of 
quinine,  right  away.  It  won't  do  in  this  climate  for  a 


The  World  and  the  Door  15 

man  to  get  to  thinking  he's  Rockefeller,  or  James  O'Neill 
either." 

Inside,  the  purser  was  untying  a  great  roll  of  newspapers, 
many  of  them  weeks  old,  gathered  in  the  lower  ports  by 
the  Pajaro  to  be  distributed  at  casual  stopping-places. 
Thus  do  the  beneficent  voyagers  scatter  news  and  enter 
tainment  among  the  prisoners  of  sea  and  mountains. 

Tio  Pancho,  the  hotel  proprietor,  set  his  great  silver- 
rimmed  anteojos  upon  his  nose  and  divided  the  papers 
into  a  number  of  smaller  rolls.  A  barefooted  muchacho 
dashed  in,  desiring  the  post  of  messenger. 

"Bien  venido,"  said  Tio  Pancho.  "This  to  Senora 
Conant;  that  to  el  Doctor  S-S-Schlegel  —  Dios!  what  a 
name  to  say !  —  that  to  Senor  Davis  —  one  for  Don 
Alberto.  These  two  for  the  Casa  de  Huespedes,  Numero 
6,  en  la  calle  de  las  Buenas  Gracias.  And  say  to  them  all, 
muchacho,  that  the  Pajaro  sails  for  Panama  at  three  this 
afternoon.  If  any  have  letters  to  send  by  the  post,  let 
them  come  quickly,  that  they  may  first  pass  through  the 
correo." 

Mrs.  Conant  received  her  roll  of  newspapers  at  four 
o'clock.  The  boy  was  late  in  delivering  them,  because 
he  had  been  deflected  from  his  duty  by  an  iguana  that 
crossed  his  path  and  to  which  he  immediately  gave  chase. 
But  it  made  no  hardship,  for  she  had  no  letters  to  send. 

She  was  idling  in  a  hammock  in  the  patio  of  the  house 
that  she  occupied,  half  awake,  half  happily  dreaming  of  the 
paradise  that  she  and  Merriam  had  created  out  of  the 


16  Whirligigs 

wrecks  of  their  pasts.  She  was  content  now  for  the  horizon 
of  that  shimmering  sea  to  be  the  horizon  of  her  life.  They 
had  shut  out  the  world  and  closed  the  door. 

Merriam  was  coming  to  her  house  at  seven,  after  his 
dinner  at  the  hotel.  She  would  put  on  a  white  dress  and 
an  apricot-coloured  lace  mantilla,  and  they  would  walk 
an  hour  under  the  cocoanut  palms  by  the  lagoon.  She 
smiled  contentedly,  and  chose  a  paper  at  random  from 
the  roll  the  boy  had  brought. 

At  first  the  words  of  a  certain  headline  of  a  Sunday 
newspaper  meant  nothing  to  her;  they  conveyed  only 
a  visualized  sense  of  familiarity.  The  largest  type  ran 
thus:  "Lloyd  B.  Conant  secures  divorce."  And  then  the 
subheadings:  "Well-known  Saint  Louis  paint  manufac 
turer  wins  suit,  pleading  one  year's  absence  of  wife." 
"Her  mysterious  disappearance  recalled."  "Nothing  has 
been  heard  of  her  since." 

Twisting  herself  quickly  out  of  the  hammock,  Mrs. 
Conant's  eye  soon  traversed  the  half-column  of  the 
"Recall."  It  ended  thus:  "It  will  be  remembered  that 
Mrs.  Conant  disappeared  one  evening  in  March  of  last 
year.  It  was  freely  rumoured  that  her  marriage  with 
Lloyd  B.  Conant  resulted  in  much  unhappiness.  Stories 
were  not  wanting  to  the  effect  that  his  cruelty  toward 
his  wife  had  more  than  once  taken  the  form  of  physical 
abuse.  After  her  departure  a  full  bottle  of  tincture  of 
aconite,  a  deadly  poison,  was  found  in  a  small  medicine 
cabinet  in  her  bedroom.  This  might  have  been  an 
indication  that  she  meditated  suicide.  It  is  supposed 


The  World  and  the  Door  17 

that  she  abandoned  such  an  intention  if  she  possessed 
it,  and  left  her  home  instead." 

Mrs.  Conant  slowly  dropped  the  paper,  and  sat  on  a 
chair,  clasping  her  hands  tightly. 

"Let  me  think  —  O  God!  —  let  me  think,"  she  whis 
pered.  "I  took  the  bottle  with  me  ...  I  threw  it 

out  of  the  window  of  the  train  ...  I .  .  . 

there  was  another  bottle  in  the  cabinet  .  .  .  there 
were  two,  side  by  side  —  the  aconite  —  and  the  valerian 
that  I  took  when  I  could  not  sleep  ...  If  they 
found  the  aconite  bottle  full,  why  —  but,  he  is  alive,  of 
course  —  I  gave  him  only  a  harmless  dose  of  valerian 
.  .  .  I  am  not  a  murderess  in  fact  .  .  .  Ralph,  I 
—  O  God,  don't  let  this  be  a  dream!" 

She  went  into  the  part  of  the  house  that  she  rented  from 
the  old  Peruvian  man  and  his  wife,  shut  the  door,  and 
walked  up  and  down  her  room  swiftly  and  feverishly 
for  half  an  hour.  Merriam's  photograph  stood  in  a  frame 
on  a  table.  She  picked  it  up,  looked  at  it  with  a  smile 
of  exquisite  tenderness,  and  —  dropped  four  tears  on  it. 
And  Merriam  only  twenty  rods  away!  Then  she  stood 
still  for  ten  minutes,  looking  into  space.  She  looked  into 
space  through  a  slowly  opening  door.  On  her  side  of  the 
door  was  the  building  material  for  a  castle  of  Romance  — 
love,  an  Arcady  of  waving  palms,  a  lullaby  of  waves  on 
the  shore  of  a  haven  of  rest,  respite,  peace,  a  lotus  land 
of  dreamy  ease  and  security  —  a  life  of  poetry  and  heart's 
ease  and  refuge.  Romanticist,  will  you  tell  me  what 
Mrs.  Conant  saw  on  the  other  side  of  the  door?  You 


18  Whirligigs 

cannot?  —  that  is,  you  will  not?     Very  well;  then  listen. 

She  saw  herself  go  into  a  department  store  and  buy  five 
spools  of  silk  thread  and  three  yards  of  gingham  to  make 
an  apron  for  the  cook.  "Shall  I  charge  it,  ma'am?" 
asked  the  clerk.  As  she  walked  out  a  lady  whom  she  met 
greeted  her  cordially.  "  Oh,  where  did  you  get  the  pattern  for 
those  sleeves,  dear  Mrs.  Conant?"  she  said.  At  the  corner 
a  policeman  lielped  her  across  the  street  and  touched  his 
helmet.  "Any  callers?"  she  asked  the  maid  ^uhen  she 
reached  home.  "Mrs.  Waldron"  answered  the  maid, 
"and  the  two  Misses  Jenkinson."  "Very  well,"  she  said. 
"  You  may  bring  me  a  cup  of  tea,  Maggie." 

Mrs.  Conant  went  to  the  door  and  called  Angela,  the  old 
Peruvian  woman.  "If  Mateo  is  there  send  him  to  me." 
Mateo,  a  half-breed,  shuffling  and  old  but  efficient,  came. 

"Is  there  a  steamer  or  a  vessel  of  any  kind  leaving 
this  coast  to-night  or  to-morrow  that  I  can  get  passage 
on  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mateo  considered. 

"At  Punta  Reina,  thirty  miles  down  the  coast,  seiiora," 
he  answered,  "there  is  a  small  steamer  loading  with 
cinchona  and  dyewoods.  She  sails  for  San  Francisco 
to-morrow  at  sunrise.  So  says  my  brother,  who  arrived 
in  his  sloop  to-day,  passing  by  Punta  Reina." 

"You  must  take  me  in  that  sloop  to  that  steamer 
to-night.  Will  you  do  that  ?  " 

"Perhaps—  '  Mateo  shrugged  a  suggestive  shoul 
der.  Mrs.  Conant  took  a  handful  of  money  from  a 
drawer  and  gave  it  to  him. 


The  World  and  the  Door  19 

"  Get  the  sloop  ready  behind  the  little  point  of  land  below 
the  town,"  she  ordered.  "Get  sailors,  and  be  ready 
to  sail  at  six  o'clock.  In  half  an  hour  bring  a  cart  partly 
filled  with  straw  into  the  patio  here,  and  take  my  trunk 
to  the  sloop.  There  is  more  money  yet.  Now,  hurry." 

For  one  time  Mateo  walked  away  without  shuffling 
his  feet. 

"Angela,"  cried  Mrs.  Conant,  almost  fiercely,  "come 
and  help  me  pack.  I  am  going  away.  Out  with  this 
trunk.  My  clothes  first.  Stir  yourself.  Those  dark 
dresses  first.  Hurry." 

From  the  first  she  did  not  waver  from  her  decision. 
Her  view  was  clear  and  final.  Her  door  had  opened 
and  let  the  world  in.  Her  love  for  Merriam  was  not 
lessened ;  but  it  now  appeared  a  hopeless  and  unrealizable 
thing.  The  visions  of  their  future  that  had  seemed  so 
blissful  and  complete  had  vanished.  She  tried  to  assure 
herself  that  her  renunciation  was  rather  for  his  sake  than 
for  her  own.  Now  that  she  was  cleared  of  her  burden  — 
at  least,  technically  —  would  not  his  own  weigh  too  heavily 
upon  him  ?  If  she  should  cling  to  him,  would  not  the 
difference  forever  silently  mar  and  corrode  their  happiness  ? 
Thus  she  reasoned ;  but  there  were  a  thousand  little  voices 
calling  to  her  that  she  could  feel  rather  than  hear,  like  the 
hum  of  distant,  powerful  machinery  —  the  little  voices 
of  the  world,  that,  when  raised  in  unison,  can  send  their 
insistent  call  through  the  thickest  door. 

Once  while  packing,  a  brief  shadow  of  the  lotus  dream 
came  back  to  her.  She  held  Merriam's  picture  to  her  heart 


20  Whirligigs 

with  one  hand,  while  she  threw  a  pair  of  shoes  into  the 
trunk  with  her  other. 

At  six  o'clock  Mateo  returned  and  reported  the  sloop 
ready.  He  and  his  brother  lifted  the  trunk  into  the  cart, 
covered  it  with  straw  and  conveyed  it  to  the  point  of 
embarkation.  From  there  they  transferred  it  on  board 
in  the  sloop's  dory.  Then  Mateo  returned  for  additional 
orders. 

Mrs.  Conant  was  ready.  She  had  settled  all  business 
matters  with  Angela,  and  was  impatiently  waiting.  She 
wore  a  long,  loose  black-silk  duster  that  she  often  walked 
about  in  when  the  evenings  were  chilly.  On  her  head 
was  a  small  round  hat,  and  over  it  the  apricot-coloured 
lace  mantilla. 

Dusk  had  quickly  followed  the  short  twilight.  Mateo 
led  her  by  dark  and  grass-grown  streets  toward  the  point 
behind  which  the  sloop  was  anchored.  On  turning  a 
corner  they  beheld  the  Hotel  Orilla  del  Mar  three  streets 
away,  nebulously  aglow  with  its  array  of  kerosene  lamps. 

Mrs.  Conant  paused,  with  streaming  eyes.  "I  must, 
I  must  see  him  once  before  I  go,"  she  murmured  in 
anguish.  But  even  then  she  did  not  falter  in  her  decision. 
Quickly  she  invented  a  plan  by  which  she  might  speak  to 
him,  and  yet  make  her  departure  without  his  knowing. 
She  would  walk  past  the  hotel,  ask  some  one  to  call  him 
out  and  talk  a  few  moments  on  some  trivial  excuse, 
leaving  him  expecting  to  see  her  at  her  home  at  seven. 

She  unpinned  her  hat  and  gave  it  to  Mateo.  "Keep 
this,  and  wait  here  till  I  come,"  she  ordered.  Then  she 


draped  the  mantilla  over  her  head  as  she  usually  did  when 
walking  after  sunset,  and  went  straight  to  the  Orilla  del 
Mar. 

She  was  glad  to  see  the  bulky,  white-clad  figure  of 
Tio  Pancho  standing  alone  on  the  gallery. 

"Tio  Pancho,"  she  said,  with  a  charming  smile,  "may 
I  trouble  you  to  ask  Mr.  Merriam  to  come  out  for  just  a 
few  moments  that  I  may  speak  with  him?" 

Tio  Pancho  bowed  as  an  elephant  bows. 

"  Buenas  tardes,  Sefiora  Conant,"  he  said,  as  a  cavalier 
talks.  And  then  he  went  on,  less  at  his  ease: 

"'But  does  not  the  senora  know  that  Senor  Merriam 
sailed  on  the  Pajaro  for  Panama  at  three  o'clock  of  this 
afternoon  ?  " 


II 

THE  THEORY  AND  THE  HOUND 

NOT  many  days  ago  my  old  friend  from  the  tropics, 
J.  P.  Bridger,  United  States  consul  on  the  island  of  Ratona, 
was  in  the  city.  We  had  wassail  and  jubilee  and  saw 
the  Flatiron  building,  and  missed  seeing  the  Bronxless 
menagerie  by  about  a  couple  of  nights.  And  then,  at  the 
ebb  tide,  we  were  walking  up  a  street  that  parallels  and 
parodies  Broadway. 

A  woman  with  a  comely  and  mundane  countenance 
passed  us,  holding  in  leash  a  wheezing,  vicious,  waddling^ 
brute  of  a  yellow  pug.  The  dog  entangled  himself  with 
Bridger's  legs  and  mumbled  his  ankles  in  a  snarling, 
peevish,  sulky  bite.  Bridger,  with  a  happy  smile,  kicked 
the  breath  out  of  the  brute;  the  woman  showered  us 
with  a  quick  rain  of  well-conceived  adjectives  that  left 
us  in  no  doubt  as  to  our  place  in  her  opinion,  arid  we 
passed  on.  Ten  yards  farther  an  old  woman  with  dis 
ordered  white  hair  and  her  bankbook  tucked  well  hidden 
beneath  her  tattered  shawl  begged.  Bridger  stopped 
and  disinterred  for  her  a  quarter  from  his  holiday  waist 
coat. 

On  the  next  corner  a  quarter  of  a  ton  of  well-clothed 
man  with  a  rice-powdered,  fat,  white  jowl,  stood  holding 

22 


TIw  Theory  and  the  Hound  23 

the  chain  of  a  devil-born  bulldog  whose  forelegs  were 
strangers  by  the  length  of  a  dachshund.  A  little  woman 
in  a  last-season's  hat  confronted  him  and  wept,  which 
was  plainly  all  she  could  do,  while  he  cursed  her  in  low, 
sweet,  practised  tones. 

Bridger  smiled  again  —  strictly  to  himself  —  and  this 
time  he  took  out  a  little  memorandum  book  and  made 
a  note  of  it.  This  he  had  no  right  to  do  without  due 
explanation,  and  I  said  so. 

"It's  a  new  theory,"  said  Bridger,  "that  I  picked  up 
down  in  Ratona.  I've  been  gathering  support  for  it  as  I 
knock  about.  The  world  isn't  ripe  for  it  yet,  but  —  well 
I'll  tell  you;  and  then  you  run  your  mind  back  along  the 
people  you've  known  and  see  what  you  make  of  it." 

And  so  I  cornered  Bridger  in  a  place  where  they  have 
artificial  palms  and  wine ;  and  he  told  me  the  story  which 
is  here  in  my  words  and  on  his  responsibility. 

One  afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  on  the  island  of  Ratona, 
a  boy  raced  along  the  beach  screaming,  "Pajaro,  ahoy!" 

Thus  he  made  known  the  keenness  of  his  hearing  and 
the  justice  of  his  discrimination  in  pitch. 

He  who  first  heard  and  made  oral  proclamation  con 
cerning  the  toot  of  an  approaching  steamer's  whistle,  and 
correctly  named  the  steamer,  was  a  small  hero  in  Ratona 
—  until  the  next  steamer  came.  Wherefore,  there  was 
rivalry  among  the  barefoot  youth  of  Ratona,  and  many 
fell  victims  to  the  softly  blown  conch  shells  of  sloops  which, 
as  they  enter  harbour,  sound  surprisingly  like  a  distant 
steamer's  signal.  And  some  could  name  you  the  vessel 


24  Whirligigs 

when  its  call,  in  your  duller  ears,  sounded  no  louder  than 
the  sigh  of  the  wind  through  the  branches  of  the  cocoa- 
nut  palms. 

But  to-day  he  who  proclaimed  the  Pajaro  gained  his 
honours.  Ratona  bent  its  ear  to  listen;  and  soon  the 
deep-tongued  blast  grew  louder  and  nearer,  and  at  length 
Ratona  saw  above  the  line  of  palms  on  the  low  "point" 
the  two  black  funnels  of  the  fruiter  slowly  creeping  toward 
the  mouth  of  the  harbour. 

You  must  know  that  Ratona  is  an  island  twenty  miles 
off  the  south  of  a  South  American  republic.  It  is  a  port 
of  that  republic;  and  it  sleeps  sweetly  in  a  smiling  sea, 
toiling  not  nor  spinning;  fed  by  the  abundant  tropics 
where  all  things  "ripen,  cease  and  fall  toward  the  grave." 

Eight  hundred  people  dream  life  away  in  a  green- 
embowered  village  that  follows  the  horseshoe  curve  of 
its  bijou  harbour.  They  are  mostly  Spanish  and  Indian 
mestizos,  with  a  shading  of  San  Domingo  Negroes,  a 
lightening  of  pure-blood  Spanish  officials  and  a  slight 
leavening  of  the  froth  of  three  or  four  pioneering  white 
races.  No  steamers  touch  at  Ratona  save  the  fruit  steamers 
which  take  on  their  banana  inspectors  there  on  their  way 
to  the  coast.  They  leave  Sunday  newspapers,  ice,  quinine, 
bacon,  watermelons  and  vaccine  matter  at  the  island  and 
that  is  about  all  the  touch  Ratona  gets  with  the  world. 

The  Pajaro  paused  at  the  mouth  of  the  harbour,  roll 
ing  heavily  in  the  swell  that  sent  the  whitecaps  racing 
beyond  the  smooth  water  inside.  Already  two  dories 
from  the  village — one  conveying  fruit  inspectors,  the 


The  Theory  and  the  Hound  25 

other  going  for  what  it  could  get  —  were  halfway  out  to 
the  steamer. 

The  inspectors'  dory  was  taken  on  board  with  them, 
and  the  Pajaro  steamed  away  for  the  mainland  for  its 
load  of  fruit. 

The  other  boat  returned  to  Ratona  bearing  a  contri 
bution  from  the  Pajaro's  store  of  ice,  the  usual  roll  of 
newspapers  and  one  passenger  —  Taylor  Plunkett,  sheriff 
of  Chatham  County,  Kentucky. 

Bridger,  the  United  States  consul  at  Ratona,  was  clean 
ing  his  rifle  in  the  official  shanty  under  a  bread-fruit  tree 
twenty'yards  from  the  water  of  the  harbour.  The  consul 
occupied  a  place  somewhat  near  the  tail  of  his  political 
party's  procession.  The  music  of  the  band  wagon 
sounded  very  faintly  to  him  in  the  distance.  The  plums 
of  office  went  to  others.  Bridger's  share  of  the  spoils  - 
the  consulship  at  Ratona  —  was  little  more  than  a  prune 
—  a  dried  prune  from  the  boarding-house  department 
of  the  public  crib.  But  $900  yearly  was  opulence  in 
Ratona.  Besides,  Bridger  had  contracted  a  passion  for 
shooting  alligators  in  the  lagoons  near  his  consulate,  and 
he  was  not  unhappy. 

He  looked  up  from  a  careful  inspection  of  his  rifle  lock 
and  saw  a  broad  man  filling  his  doorway.  A  broad, 
noiseless,  slow-moving  man,  sunburned  almost  to  the 
brown  of  Vandyke.  A  man  of  forty-five,  neatly  clothed  in 
homespun,  with  scanty  light  hair,  a  close-clipped  brown- 
and-gray  beard  and  pale-blue  eyes  expressing  mildness 
and  simplicity. 


26  Whirligigs 

"You  are  Mr.  Bridger,  the  consul,"  said  the  broad 
man.  "They  directed  me  here.  Can  you  tell  me  what 
those  big  bunches  of  things  like  gourds  are  in  those  trees 
that  look  like  feather  dusters  along  the  edge  of  the  water  ?" 

"Take  that  chair,"  said  the  consul,  reoiling  his  clean 
ing  rag.  "No,  the  other  one  —  that  bamboo  thing  won't 
hold  you.  Why,  they're  cocoanuts  —  green  cocoanuts. 
The  shell  of  'em  is  always  a  light  green  before  they're 
ripe." 

"Much  obliged,"  said  the  other  man,  sitting  down 
carefully.  "I  didn't  quite  like  to  tell  the  folks  at  home 
they  were  olives  unless  I  was  sure  about  it.  My  name 
is  Plunkett.  I'm  sheriff  of  Chatham  County,  Kentucky. 
I've  got  extradition  papers  in  my  pocket  authorizing  the 
arrest  of  a  man  on  this  island.  They've  been  signed  by 
the  President  of  this  country,  and  they're  in  correct  shape. 
The  man's  name  is  Wade  Williams.  He's  in  the  cocoa- 
nut  raising  business.  What  he's  wanted  for  is  the  murder 
of  his  wife  two  years  ago.  Where  can  I  find  him  ?  " 

The  consul  squinted  an  eye  and  looked  through  his 
rifle  barrel. 

"There's  nobody  on  the  island  who  calls  himself  'Wil 
liams,'  "  he  remarked. 

"Didn't  suppose  there  was,"  said  Plunkett  mildly. 
"He'll  do  by  any  other  name." 

"Besides  myself,"  said  Bridger,  "there  are  only 
two  Americans  on  Ratona  —  Bob  Reeves  and  Henry 
Morgan." 

"The  man  I  want  sells  cocoanuts,"  suggested  Plunkett. 


The   Theory  and  the  Hound  27 

"You  see  that  cocoanut  walk  extending  up  to  the 
point  ?  "  said  the  consul,  waving  his  hand  toward  the  open 
door.  "That  belongs  to  Bob  Reeves.  Henry  Morgan 
owns  half  the  trees  to  loo'ard  on  the  island." 

"One  month  ago,"  said  the  sheriff,  "Wade  Williams 
wrote  a  confidential  letter  to  a  man  in  Chatham  county, 
telling  him  where  he  was  and  how  he  was  getting  along. 
The  letter  was  lost;  and  the  person  that  found  it  gave  it 
away.  They  sent  me  after  him,  and  I've  got  the  papers. 
I  reckon  he's  one  of  your  cocoanut  men  for  certain." 

"You've  got  his  picture,  of  course,"  said  Bridger. 
"It  might  be  Reeves  or  Morgan,  but  I'd  hate  to  think  it. 
They're  both  as  fine  fellows  as  you'd  meet  in  an  all-day 
auto  ride." 

"No,"  doubtfully  answered  Plunkett;  "there  wasn't 
any  picture  of  Williams  to  be  had.  And  I  never  saw  him 
myself.  I've  been  sheriff  only  a  year.  But  I've  got  a 
pretty  accurate  description  of  him.  About  5  feet  11; 
dark  hair  and  eyes;  nose  inclined  to  be  Roman;  heavy 
about  the  shoulders;  strong,  white  teeth,  with  none  miss 
ing;  laughs  a  good  deal,  talkative;  drinks  considerably 
but  never  to  intoxication;  looks  you  square  in  the  eye 
when  talking;  age  thirty-five.  Which  one  of  your  men 
does  that  description  fit?" 

The  consul  grinned  broadly. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  do,"  he  said,  laying  down  his 
rifle  and  slipping  on  his  dingy  black  alpaca  coat.  "You 
come  along,  Mr.  Plunkett,  and  I'll  take  you  up  to  see 
the  boys.  If  you  can  tell  which  one  of  'em  your  descrip- 


28  Whirligigs 

tion  fits  better  than  it  does  the  other  you  have  the  advan 
tage  of  me." 

Bridger  conducted  the  sheriff  out  and  along  the  hard 
beach  close  to  which  the  tiny  houses  of  the  village  were 
distributed.  Immediately  back  of  the  town  rose  sudden, 
small,  thickly  wooded  hills.  Up  one  of  these,  by  means 
of  steps  cut  in  the  hard  clay,  the  consul  led  Plunkett. 
On  the  very  verge  of  an  eminence  was  perched  a  two- 
room  wooden  cottage  with  a  thatched  roof.  A  Carib 
woman  was  washing  clothes  outside.  The  consul 
ushered  the  sheriff  to  the  door  of  the  room  that  over 
looked  the  harbour. 

Two  men  were  in  the  room,  about  to  sit  down,  in  their 
shirt  sleeves,  to  a  table  spread  for  dinner.  They  bore 
little  resemblance  one  to  the  other  in  detail;  but  the 
general  description  given  by  Plunkett  could  have  been 
justly  applied  to  either.  In  height,  colour  of  hair,  shape 
of  nose,  build  and  manners  each  of  them  tallied  with  it. 
They  were  fair  types  of  jovial,  ready-witted,  broad- 
gauged  Americans  who  had  gravitated  togetner  for  com 
panionship  in  an  alien  land. 

"Hello,  Bridger!"  they  called  in  unison  at  sight  of 
the  consul.  "Come  and  have  dinner  with  us!"  And 
then  they  noticed  Plunkett  at  his  heels,  and  came  forward 
with  hospitable  curiosity. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  consul,  his  voice  taking  on 
unaccustomed  formality,  "this  is  Mr.  Plunkett  Mr. 
Plunkett  —  Mr.  Reeves  and  Mr.  Morgan." 

The  cocoanut  barons  greeted  the  newcomer  joyously. 


29 

Reeves  seemed  about  an  inch  taller  than  Morgan,  but 
his  laugh  was  not  quite  as  loud.  Morgan's  eyes  were 
deep  brown;  Reeves's  were  black.  Reeves  was  the  host 
and  busied  himself  with  fetching  other  chairs  and  calling 
to  the  Carib  woman  for  supplemental  table  ware.  It 
was  explained  that  Morgan  lived  in  a  bamboo  shack  to 
"loo'ard,"  but  that  every  day  the  two  friends  dined 
together.  Plunkett  stood  still  during  the  preparations, 
looking  about  mildly  with  his  pale-blue  eyes.  Bridger 
looked  apologetic  and  uneasy. 

At  length  two  other  covers  were  laid  and  the  company 
was  assigned  to  places.  Reeves  and  Morgan  stood  side 
by  side  across  the  table  from  the  visitors.  Reeves  nodded 
genially  as  a  signal  for  all  to  seat  themselves.  And  then 
suddenly  Plunkett  raised  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
authority.  He  was  looking  straight  between  Reeves 
and  Morgan. 

"Wade  Williams,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  are  under 
arrest  for  murder." 

Reeves  and  Morgan  instantly  exchanged  a  quick, 
bright  glance,  the  quality  of  which  was  interrogation, 
with  a  seasoning  of  surprise.  Then,  simultaneously 
they  turned  to  the  speaker  with  a  puzzled  and  frank  depre 
cation  in  their  gaze. 

"Can't  say  that  we  understand  you,  Mr.  Plunkett," 
said  Morgan,  cheerfully.  "Did  you  say  'Williams'?" 

"What's  the  joke,  Bridgy?"  asked  Reeves,  turning 
to  the  consul  with  a  smile. 

Before  Bridger  could   answer  Plunkett  spoke  again. 


30  Whirligigs 

"I'll  explain,"  he  said,  quietly.  "One  of  you  don't 
need  any  explanation,  but  this  is  for  the  other  one.  One 
of  you  is  Wade  Williams  of  Chatham  County,  Kentucky. 
You  murdered  your  wife  on  May  5,  two  years  ago,  after 
ill-treating  and  abusing  her  continually  for  five  years.  I 
have  the  proper  papers  in  my  pocket  for  taking  you  back 
with  me,  and  you  are  going.  We  will  return  on  the 
fruit  steamer  that  comes  back  by  this  island  to-morrow 
to  leave  its  inspectors.  I  acknowledge,  gentlemen,  that 
I'm  not  quite  sure  which  one  of  you  is  Williams.  But 
Wade  Williams  goes  back  to  Chatham  County  to-morrow. 
I  want  you  to  understand  that." 

A  great  sound  of  merry  laughter  from  Morgan  and 
Reeves  went  out  over  the  still  harbour.  Two  or  three 
fishermen  in  the  fleet  of  sloops  anchored  there  looked  up 
at  the  house  of  the  diablos  Americanos  on  the  hill  and 
wondered. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Plunkett,"  cried  Morgan,  conquering 
his  mirth,  "the  dinner  is  getting  cold.  Let  us  sit  down 
and  eat.  I  am  anxious  to  get  my  spoon  into  that  shark- 
fin  soup.  Business  afterward." 

"Sit  down,  gentlemen,  if  you  please,"  added  Reeves, 
pleasantly.  "I  am  sure  Mr.  Plunkett  will  not  object. 
Perhaps  a  little  time  may  be  of  advantage  to  him  in  identi 
fying  —  the  gentlemen  he  wishes  to  arrest." 

"No  objections,  I'm  sure,"  said  Plunkett,  dropping 
into  his  chair  heavily.  "I'm  hungry  myself.  I  didn't 
want  to  accept  the  hospitality  of  you  folks  without  giving 
you  notice;  that's  all." 


The  Theory  and  the  Hound  31 

Reeves  set  bottles  and  glasses  on  the  table. 

"There's  cognac,"  he  said,  "and  anisada,  and  Scotch 
'smoke,'  and  rye.  Take  your  choice." 

Bridger  chose  rye,  Reeves  poured  three  fingers  of 
Scotch  for  himself,  Morgan  took  the  same.  The  sheriff, 
against  much  protestation,  filled  his  glass  from  the  water 
bottle. 

"Here's  to  the  appetite,"  said  Reeves,  raising  his  glass, 
"of  Mr.  Williams!"  Morgan's  laugh  and  his  drink 
encountering  sent  him  into  a  choking  splutter.  All  began 
to  pay  attention  to  the  dinner,  which  was  well  cooked  and 
palatable. 

"Williams!"  called  Plunkett,   suddenly  and    sharply. 

All  looked  up  wonderingly.  Reeves  found  the  sheriff's 
mild  eye  resting  upon  him.  He  flushed  a  little. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  with  some  asperity,  "my  name's 
Reeves,  and  I  don't  want  you  too  —  But  the  comedy 

of  the  thing  came  to  his  rescue,  and  he  ended  with  a  laugh. 

"I   suppose,    Mr.   Plunkett,"   said    Morgan,    carefully 
seasoning  an  alligator  pear,  "that  you  are  aware  of  the 
fact  that  you  will  import  a  good  deal  of  trouble  for  your 
self  into  Kentucky  if  you  take  back  the  wrong  man  - 
that  is,  of  course,  if  you  take  anybody  back  ?" 

"Thank  you  for  the  salt,"  said  the  sheriff.  "Oh,  I'll 
take  somebody  back.  It'll  be  one  of  you  two  gentlemen. 
Yes,  I  know  I'd  get  stuck  for  damages  if  I  make  a  mis 
take.  But  I'm  going  to  try  to  get  the  right  man." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  do,"  said  Morgan,  leaning  for 
ward  with  a  jolly  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "You  take  me. 


32  Whirligigs 

I'll  go  without  any  trouble.  The  cocoanut  business  hasn't 
panned  out  well  this  year,  and  I'd  like  to  make  some 
extra  money  out  of  your  bondsmen." 

"That's  not  fair,"  chimed  in  Reeves.  "I  got  only 
$16  a  thousand  for  my  last  shipment.  Take  me,  Mr. 
Plunkett." 

"I'll  take  Wade  Williams,"  said  the  sheriff,  patiently, 
"or  I'll  come  pretty  close  to  it." 

"It's  like  dining  with  a  ghost,"  remarked  Morgan, 
with  a  pretended  shiver.  "The  ghost  of  a  murderer,  too! 
Will  somebody  pass  the  toothpicks  to  the  shade  of  the 
naughty  Mr.  Williams?" 

Plunkett  seemed  as  unconcerned  as  if  he  were  dining 
at  his  own  table  in  Chatham  County.  lie  was  a  gallant 
trencherman,  and  the  strange  tropic  viands  tickled  his 
palate.  Heavy,  commonplace,  almost  slothful  in  his 
movements,  he  appeared  to  be  devoid  of  all  the  cunning 
and  watchfulness  of  the  sleuth.  He  even  ceased  to 
observe,  with  any  sharpness  or  attempted  discrimination, 
the  two  men,  one  of  whom  he  had  undertaken  with  sur 
prising  self-confidence,  to  drag  away  upon  the  serious 
charge  of  wife-murder.  Here,  indeed,  was  a  problem 
set  before  him  that  if  wrongly  solved  would  have 
amounted  to  his  serious  discomfiture,  yet  there  he  sat 
puzzling  his  soul  (to  all  appearances)  over  the  novel  flavour 
of  a  broiled  iguana  cutlet. 

The  consul  felt  a  decided  discomfort.  Reeves  and 
Morgan  were  his  friends  and  pals;  yet  the  sheriff  from 
Kentucky  had  a  certain  right  to  his  official  aid  and  moral 


The  Theory  and  the  Hound  33 

support.  So  Bridger  sat  the  silentest  around  the  board 
and  tried  to  estimate  the  peculiar  situation.  His  con 
clusion  was  that  both  Reeves  and  Morgan,  quickwitted, 
as  he  knew  them  to  be,  had  conceived  at  the  moment  of 
Plunkett's  disclosure  of  his  mission  —  and  in  the  brief 
space  of  a  lightning  flash  —  the  idea  that  the  other  might 
be  the  guilty  Williams;  and  that  each  of  them  had  decided 
in  that  moment  loyally  to  protect  his  comrade  against  the 
doom  that  threatened  him.  This  was  the  consul's  theory 
and  if  he  had  been  a  bookmaker  at  a  race  of  wits  for  life 
and  liberty  he  would  have  offered  heavy  odds  against 
the  plodding  sheriff  from  Chatham  County,  Kentucky. 

When  the  meal  was  concluded  the  Carib  woman  came 
and  removed  the  dishes  and  cloth.  Reeves  strewed  the 
table  with  excellent  cigars,  and  Plunkett,  with  the  others, 
lighted  one  of  these  with  evident  gratification. 

"I  may  be  dull,"  said  Morgan,  with  a  grin  and  a  wink 
at  Bridger;  "but  I  want  to  know  if  I  am.  Now,  I  say 
this  is  all  a  joke  of  Mr.  Plunkett's,  concocted  to  frighten 
two  babes-in-the-woods.  Is  this  Williamson  to  be  taken 
seriously  or  not?" 

"Williams,"'  corrected  Plunkett  gravely.  "I  never 
got  off  any  jokes  in  my  life.  I  know  I  wouldn't  travel 
2,000  miles  to  get  off  a  poor  one  as  this  would  be  if  I 
didn't  take  Wade  Williams  back  with  me.  Gentlemen!" 
continued  the  sheriff,  now  letting  his  mild  eyes  travel 
impartially  from  one  of  the  company  to  another,  "see  if 
you  can  find  any  joke  in  this  case.  Wade  Williams  is 
listening  to  the  words  I  utter  now;  but  out  of  politeness 


34  Whirligigs 

I  will  speak  of  him  as  a  third  person.  For  five  years  he 
made  his  wife  lead  the  life  of  a  dog  —  No;  I'll  take  that 
back.  No  dog  in  Kentucky  was  ever  treated  as  she  was. 
He  spent  the  money  that  she  brought  him  —  spent  it  at 
races,  at  the  card  table  and  on  horses  and  hunting.  He 
was  a  good  fellow  to  his  friends,  but  a  cold,  sullen  demon 
at  home.  He  wound  up  the  five  years  of  neglect  by  strik 
ing  her  with  his  closed  hand  —  a  hand  as  hard  as  a  stone 
—  when  she  was  ill  and  weak  from  suffering.  She  died 
the  next  day;  and  he  skipped.  That's  all  there  is  to  it. 
It's  enough.  I  never  saw  Williams;  but  I  knew  his 
wife.  I'm  not  a  man  to  tell  half.  She  and  I  were  keep 
ing  company  when  she  met  him.  She  went  to  Louisville 
on  a  visit  and  saw  him  there.  I'll  admit  that  he  spoilt 
my  chances  in  no  time.  I  lived  then  on  the  edge  of  the 
Cumberland  mountains.  I  was  elected  sheriff  of  Chatham 
County  a  year  after  Wade  Williams  killed  his  wife.  My 
official  duty  sends  me  out  here  after  him;  but  I'll  admit 
that  there's  personal  feeling,  too.  And  he's  going 
back  with  me.  Mr.  —  er  —  Reeves,  will  you  pass  me  a 
match?" 

"Awfully  imprudent  of  Williams,"  said  Morgan,  putting 
his  feet  up  against  the  wall,  "to  strike  a  Kentucky  lady. 
Seems  to  me  I've  heard  they  were  scrappers." 

"Bad,  bad  Williams,"  said  Reeves,  pouring  out  more 
"Scotch." 

The  two  men  spoke  lightly,  but  the  consul  saw  and 
felt  the  tension  and  the  carefulness  in  their  actions  and 
words.  'rGood  old  fellows,"  he  said  to  himself;  "they're 


The  Theory  and  the  Hound  35 

both  all  right.  Each  of  'em  is  standing  by  the  other  like 
a  little  brick  church." 

And  then  a  dog  walked  into  the  room  where  they  sat  — 
a  black-and-tan  hound,  long-eared,  lazy,  confident  of 
welcome. 

Plunkett  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  the  animal, 
which  halted,  confidently,  within  a  few  feet  of  his  chair. 

Suddenly  the  sheriff,  with  a  deep-mouthed  oath,  left 
his  seat  and  bestowed  upon  the  dog  a  vicious  and  heavy 
kick,  with  his  ponderous  shoe. 

The  hound,  heart-broken,  astonished,  with  flapping 
ears  and  incurved  tail,  uttered  a  piercing  yelp  of  pain 
and  surprise. 

Reeves  and  the  consul  remained  in  their  chairs,  say 
ing  nothing,  but  astonished  at  the  unexpected  show  of 
intolerance  from  the  easy-going  man  from  Chatham 
county. 

But  Morgan,  with  a  suddenly  purpling  face,  leaped 
to  his  feet  and  raised  a  threatening  arm  above  the 
guest. 

"You  —  brute!"  he  shouted,  passionately;  "why  did 
you  do  that?" 

Quickly  the  amenities  returned,  Plunkett  muttered 
some  indistinct  apology  and  regained  his  seat.  Morgan 
with  a  decided  effort  controlled  his  indignation  and  also 
returned  to  his  chair. 

And  then  Plunkett  with  the  spring  of  a  tiger,  leaped 
around  the  corner  of  the  table  and  snapped  handcuffs 
on  the  paralyzed  Morgan's  wrists. 


36  Whirligigs 

"Hound-lover  and  woman-killer!"  lie  cried;  "get 
ready  to  meet  your  God." 

When  Bridger  had  finished  I  asked  him: 

"Did  he  get  the  right  man?" 

"He  did,"  said  the  Consul. 

"And  how  did  he  know?"  I  inquired,  being  in  a  kind 
of  bewilderment. 

"  When  he  put  Morgan  in  the  dory,"  answered  Bridger, 
"the  next  day  to  take  him  aboard  the  Pajaro,  this  man 
Plunkett  stopped  to  shake  hands  with  me  and  I  asked 
him  the  same  question. 

"'Mr.  Bridger,'  said  he,  'I'm  a  Kentuckian,  and  I've 
seen  a  great  deal  of  both  men  and  animals.  And  I  never 
yet  saw  a  man  that  was  overfond  of  horses  and  dogs  but 
what  was  cruel  to  women.' " 


m 

THE  HYPOTHESES  OF  FAILURE 

LAWYER  GOOCH  bestowed  his  undivided  attention 
upon  the  engrossing  arts  of  his  profession.  But  one 
flight  of  fancy  did  he  allow  his  mind  to  entertain.  He 
was  fond  of  likening  his  suite  of  office  rooms  to  the  bot 
tom  of  a  ship.  The  rooms  were  three  in  number,  with  a 
door  opening  from  one  to  another.  These  doors  could 
also  be  closed. 

"Ships,"  Lawyer  Gooch  would  say,  "are  constructed 
for  safety,  with  separate,  water-tight  compartments  in 
their  bottoms.  If  one  compartment  springs  a  leak  it  fills 
with  water;  but  the  good  ship  goes  on  unhurt.  Were  it 
not  for  the  separating  bulkheads  one  leak  would  sink 
the  vessel.  Now  it  often  happens  that  while  I  am  occu 
pied  with  clients,  other  clients  with  conflicting  interests 
call.  With  the  assistance  of  Archibald  —  an  office  boy 
with  a  future  —  I  cause  the  dangerous  influx  to  be 
diverted  into  separate  compartments,  while  I  sound 
with  my  legal  plummet  the  depth  of  each.  If  neces 
sary,  they  may  be  baled  into  the  hallway  and  permitted 
to  escape  by  way  of  the  stairs,  which  we  may  term  the  lee 
scuppers.  Thus  the  good  ship  of  business  is  kept  afloat; 
whereas  if  the  element  that  supports  her  were  allowed 

37 


38  Whirligigs 

to  mingle  freely  in  her  hold  we  might  be  swamped  —  ha, 
ha,  ha!" 

The  law  is  dry.  Good  jokes  are  few.  Surely  it 
might  be  permitted  Lawyer  Gooch  to  mitigate  the  bore 
of  briefs,  the  tedium  of  torts  and  the  prosiness  of  processes 
with  even  so  light  a  levy  upon  the  good  property  of  humour. 

Lawyer  Gooch's  practice  leaned  largely  to  the  settle 
ment  of  marital  infelicities.  Did  matrimony  languish 
through  complications,  he  mediated,  soothed  and  arbi 
trated.  Did  it  suffer  from  implications,  he  readjusted, 
defended  and  championed.  Did  it  arrive  at  the  extremity 
of  duplications,  he  always  got  light  sentences  for  his 
clients. 

But  not  always  was  Lawyer  Gooch  the  keen,  armed, 
wily  belligerent,  ready  with  his  two-edged  sword  to  lop 
off  the  shackles  of  Hymen.  He  had  been  known  to  build 
up  instead  of  demolishing,  to  reunite  instead  of  severing, 
to  lead  erring  and  foolish  ones  back  into  the  fold  instead 
of  scattering  the  flock.  Often  had  he  by  his  eloquent 
and  moving  appeals  sent  husband  and  wife,  weeping,  back 
into  each  other's  arms.  Frequently  he  had  coached 
childhood  so  successfully  that,  at  the  psychological 
moment  (and  at  a  given  signal)  the  plaintive  pipe  of 
"  Papa,  won't  you  turn  home  adain  to  me  and  muvver  ?  " 
had  won  the  day  and  upheld  the  pillars  of  a  tottering  home. 

Unprejudiced  persons  admitted  that  Lawyer  Gooch 
received  as  big  fees  from  these  revoked  clients  as  would 
have  been  paid  him  had  the  cases  been  contested  in  court. 
Prejudiced  ones  intimated  that  his  fees  were  doubled. 


The  Hypotheses  of  Failure  39 

because  the  penitent  couples  always  came  back  later  for 
the  divorce,  anyhow. 

There  came  a  season  in  June  when  the  legal  ship  of 
Lawyer  Gooch  (to  borrow  his  own  figure)  was  nearly 
becalmed.  The  divorce  mill  grinds  slowly  in  June.  It 
is  the  month  of  Cupid  and  Hymen. 

Lawyer  Gooch,  then,  sat  idle  in  the  middle  room  of 
his  clientless  suite.  A  small  anteroom  connected  —  or 
rather  separated  —  this  apartment  from  the  hallway. 
Here  was  stationed  Archibald,  who  wrested  from  visitors 
their  cards  or  oral  nomenclature  which  he  bore  to  his 
master  while  they  waited. 

Suddenly,  on  this  day,  there  came  a  great  knocking 
at  the  outermost  door. 

Archibald,  opening  it,  was  thrust  aside  as  superfluous 
by  the  visitor,  who  without  due  reverence  at  once  pene 
trated  to  the  office  of  Lawyer  Gooch  and  threw  himself 
with  good-natured  insolence  into  a  comfortable  chair 
facing  that  gentlemen. 

"You  are  Phineas  C.  Gooch,  attorney-at-law ? "  said 
the  visitor,  his  tone  of  voice  and  inflection  making  his 
words  at  once  a  question,  an  assertion  and  an  accusation. 

Before  committing  himself  by  a  reply,  the  lawyer  esti 
mated  his  possible  client  in  one  of  his  brief  but  shrewd 
and  calculating  glances. 

The  man  was  of  the  emphatic  type  —  large-sized,  active, 
bold  and  debonair  in  demeanour,  vain  beyond  a  doubt, 
slightly  swaggering,  ready  and  at  ease.  He  was  well- 
clothed,  but  with  a  shade  too  much  ornateness.  He  was 


40  Whirligigs 

seeking  a  lawyer;  but  if  that  fact  would  seem  to  saddle 
him  with  troubles  they  were  not  patent  in  his  beaming 
eye  and  courageous  air. 

"My  name  is  Gooch,"  at  length  the  lawyer  admitted. 
Upon  pressure  he  would  also  have  confessed  to  the  Phineas 
C.  But  he  did  not  consider  it  good  practice  to  volunteer 
information.  "  I  did  not  receive  your  card,"  he  continued, 
by  way  of  rebuke,  "  so  I  — 

"I  know  you  didn't,"  remarked  the  visitor,  coolly; 
"and  you  won't  just  yet.  Light  up?"  He  threw  a  leg 
over  an  arm  of  his  chair,  and  tossed  a  handful  of  rich- 
hued  cigars  upon  the  table.  Lawyer  Gooch  knew  the 
brand.  He  thawed  just  enough  to  accept  the  invitation 
co  smoke. 

"You  are  a  divorce  lawyer,"  said  the  cardless  visitor. 
This  time  there  was  no  interrogation  in  his  voice.  Nor 
did  his  words  constitute  a  simple  assertion.  They  formed 
a  charge  —  a  denunciation  —  as  one  would  say  to  a  dog : 
"You  are  a  dog."  Lawyer  Gooch  was  silent  under  the 
imputation. 

"You  handle,"  continued  the  visitor,  "all  the  various 
ramifications  of  busted-up  connubiality.  You  are  a 
surgeon,  we  might  say,  who  extracts  Cupid's  darts  when 
he  shoots  'em  into  the  wrong  parties.  You  furnish 
patent,  incandescent  lights  for  premises  where  the  torch 
of  Hymen  has  burned  so  low  you  can't  light  a  cigar  at  it. 
Am  I  right,  Mr.  Gooch?" 

"I  have  undertaken  cases,"  said  the  lawyer,  guardedly, 
"*MI  the  line  to  which  your  figurative  speech  seems  to  refer. 


The  Hypotheses  of  Failure  41 

Do  you  wish  to  consult  me  professionally,  Mr. " 

The  lawyer  paused,  with  significance. 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  other,  with  an  arch  wave  of  his 
cigar,  "not  just  yet.  Let  us  approach  the  subject  with 
the  caution  that  should  have  been  used  in  the  original 
act  that  makes  this  pow-wow  necessary.  There  exists  a 
matrimonial  jumble  to  be  straightened  out.  But  before 
I  give  you  names  I  want  your  honest — well,  anyhow, 
your  professional  opinion  on  the  merits  of  the  mix-up. 
I  want  you  to  size  up  the  catastrophe  —  abstractly  —  you 
understand  ?  I'm  Mr.  Nobody;  and  I've  got  a  story  to  tell 
you.  Then  you  say  what's  what.  Do  you  get  my  wireless  ?" 

"You  want  to  state  a  hypothetical  case?"  suggested 
Lawyer  Gooch. 

"That's  the  word  I  was  after.  'Apothecary'  was  the 
best  shot  I  could  make  at  it  in  my  mind.  The  hypo 
thetical  goes.  I'll  state  the  case.  Suppose  there's  a 
woman  —  a  deuced  fine-looking  woman  —  who  has  run 
away  from  her  husband  and  home  ?  She's  badly  mashed 
on  another  man  who  went  to  her  town  to  work  up  some 
real  estate  business.  Now,  we  may  as  well  call  this 
woman's  husband  Thomas  R.  Billings,  for  that's  his 
name.  I'm  giving  you  straight  tips  on  the  cognomens. 
The  Lothario  chap  is  Henry  K.  Jessup.  The  Billingses 
lived  in  a  little  town  called  Susanville  —  a  good  many 
miles  from  here.  Now,  Jessup  leaves  Susanville  two 
weeks  ago.  The  next  day  Mrs.  Billings  follows  him. 
She's  dead  gone  on  this  man  Jessup;  you  can  bet  your 
law  library  on  that." 


42  Whirligigs 

Lawyer  Gooch's  client  said  this  with  such  unctuous 
satisfaction  that  even  the  callous  lawyer  experienced  a 
slight  ripple  of  repulsion.  He  now  saw  clearly  in  his 
fatuous  visitor  the  conceit  of  the  lady-killer,  the  egoistic 
complacency  of  the  successful  trifler. 

"Now,"  continued  the  visitor,  "suppose  this  Mrs. 
Billings  wasn't  happy  at  home?  We'll  say  she  and  her 
husband  didn't  gee  worth  a  cent.  They've  got  incom 
patibility  to  burn.  The  things  she  likes,  Billings  wouldn't 
have  as  a  gift  with  trading-stamps.  It's  Tabby  and 
Rover  with  them  all  the  time.  She's  an  educated  woman 
in  science  and  culture,  and  she  reads  things  out  loud  at 
meetings.  Billings  is  not  on.  He  don't  appreciate  pro 
gress  and  obelisks  and  ethics,  and  things  of  that  sort.  Old 
Billings  is  simply  a  blink  when  it  comes  to  such  things. 
The  lady  is  out  and  out  above  his  class.  Now,  lawyer, 
don't  it  look  like  a  fair  equalization  of  rights  and  wrongs 
that  a  woman  like  that  should  be  allowed  to  throw  down 
Billings  and  take  the  man  that  can  appreciate  her  ?" 

"Incompatibility,"  said  Lawyer  Gooch,  "is  undoubt 
edly  the  source  of  much  marital  discord  and  unhappiness. 
Where  it  is  positively  proved,  divorce  would  seem  to  be 
the  equitable  remedy.  Are  you  —  excuse  me  —  is  this 
man  Jessup  one  to  whom  the  lady  may  safely  trust 
her  future?" 

"Oh,  you  can  bet  on  Jessup,"  said  the  client,  with  a 
confident  wag  of  his  head.  "Jessup's  all  right.  He'll 
do  the  square  thing.  Wiry,  he  left  Susanville  just  to  keep 
people  from  talking  about  Mrs.  Billings.  But  she  fol- 


The  Hypotheses  of  Failure  43 

lowed  him  up,  and  now,  of  course,  he'll  stick  to  her. 
When  she  gets  a  divorce,  all  legal  and  proper,  Jessup 
will  do  the  proper  thing." 

"And  now,"  said  Lawyer  Gooch,  "continuing  the  hypo 
thesis,  if  you  prefer,  and  supposing  that  my  services  should 
be  desired  in  the  case,  what " 

The  client  rose  impulsively  to  his  feet. 

"Oh,  dang  the  hypothetical  business,"  he  exclaimed, 
impatiently.  "Let's  let  her  drop,  and  get  down  to 
straight  talk.  You  ought  to  know  who  I  am  by  this  time. 
1  want  that  woman  to  have  her  divorce.  I'll  pay  for 
il.  The  day  you  set  Mrs.  Billings  free  I'll  pay  you  five 
hundred  dollars." 

Lawyer  Gooch's  client  banged  his  fist  upon  the  table 
to  punctuate  his  generosity. 

"If  that  is  the  case  > "  began  the  lawyer. 

"Lady  to  see  you,  sir,"  bawled  Archibald,  bouncing 
in  from  his  anteroom.  He  had  orders  to  always  announce 
immediately  any  client  that  might  come.  There  was  no 
sense  in  turning  business  away. 

Lawyer  Gooch  took  client  number  one  by  the  arm  and 
led  him  suavely  into  one  of  the  adjoining  rooms.  "Favour 
me  by  remaining  here  a  few  minutes,  sir,"  said  he.  "I 
will  return  and  resume  our  consultation  with  the  least 
possible  delay.  I  am  rather  expecting  a  visit  from  a 
very  wealthy  old  lady  in  connection  with  a  will.  I  will 
not  keep  you  waiting  long." 

The  breezy  gentleman  seated  himself  with  obliging 
acquiescence,  and  took  up  a  magazine.  The  lawyer 


44  Whirligigs 

returned  to  the  middle  office,  carefully  closing  behind 
him  the  connecting  door. 

"Show  the  lady  in,  Archibald,"  he  said  to  the  office 
boy,  who  was  awaiting  the  order. 

A  tall  lady,  of  commanding  presence  and  sternly  hand 
some,  entered  the  room.  She  wore  robes — robes;  not 
clothes  —  ample  and  fluent.  In  her  eye  could  be  per 
ceived  the  lambent  flame  of  genius  and  soul.  In  her 
hand  was  a  green  bag  of  the  capacity  of  a  bushel,  and  an 
umbrella  that  also  seemed  to  wear  a  robe,  ample  and 
fluent.  She  accepted  a  chair. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Phineas  C.  Gooch,  the  lawyer?"  she 
asked,  in  formal  and  unconciliatory  tones. 

"I  am,"  answered  Lawyer  Gooch,  without  circum 
locution,  lie  never  circumlocuted  when  dealing  with 
a  woman.  Women  circumlocute.  Time  is  wasted  when 
both  sides  in  debate  employ  the  same  tactics. 

"As  a  lawyer,  sir,"  began  the  lady,  "you  may  have 
acquired  some  knowledge  of  the  human  heart.  Do  you 
believe  that  the  pusillanimous  and  petty  conventions  of 
our  artificial  social  life  should  stand  as  an  obstacle  in 
the  way  of  a  noble  and  affectionate  heart  when  it  finds  its 
true  mate  among  the  miserable  and  worthless  wretches 
in  the  world  that  are  called  men?" 

"Madam,"  said  Lawyer  Gooch,  in  the  tone  that  he 
used  in  curbing  his  female  clients,  "this  is  an  office  for 
conducting  the  practice  of  law.  I  am  a  lawyer,  not  a 
philosopher,  nor  the  editor  of  an  'Answers  to  the 
Lovelorn'  column  of  a  newspaper.  I  have  other 


The  Hypotheses  of  Failure  45 

clients  waiting.     I  will   ask  you  kindly  to  come  to  the 
point." 

"Well,  you  needn't  get  so  stiff  around  the  gills  about 
it,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  snap  of  her  luminous  eyes  and 
a  startling  gyration  of  her  umbrella.  "Business  is  what 
I've  come  for.  I  want  your  opinion  in  the  matter  of  a 
suit  for  divorce,  as  the  vulgar  would  call  it,  but  which  is 
really  only  the  readjustment  of  the  false  and  ignoble  con 
ditions  that  the  short-sighted  laws  of  man  have  interposed 
between  a  loving " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  interrupted  Lawyer 
Gooch,  with  some  impatience,  "for  reminding  you  again 
that  this  is  a  law  office.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Wilcox " 

"Mrs.  Wilcox  is  all  right,"  cut  in  the  lady,  with  a  hint 
of  asperity.  "And  so  are  Tolstoi,  and  Mrs.  Gertrude 
Atherton,  and  Omar  Khayyam,  and  Mr.  Edward  Bok. 
I've  read  'em  all.  I  would  like  to  discuss  with  you  the 
divine  right  of  the  soul  as  opposed  to  the  freedom-destroy 
ing  restrictions  of  a  bigoted  and  narrow-minded  society. 
But  I  will  proceed  to  business.  I  would  prefer  to  lay 
the  matter  before  you  in  an  impersonal  way  until  you 
pass  upon  its  merits.  That  is  to  describe  it  as  a  sup- 
posable  instance,  without " 

"  You  wish  to  state  a  hypothetical  case  ?"  said  Lawyer 
Gooch. 

"I  was  going  to  say  that,"  said  the  lady,  sharply. 
"Now,  suppose  there  is  a  woman  who  is  all  soul  and 
heart  and  aspirations  for  a  complete  existence.  This 
woman  has  a  husband  who  is  far  below  her  in  intellect,  in 


46  Whirligigs 

taste — in  everything.  Bah!  he  is  a  brute.  He  despises 
literature.  He  sneers  at  the  lofty  thoughts  of  the  world's 
great  thinkers.  He  thinks  only  of  real  estate  and  such 
sordid  things.  He  is  no  mate  for  a  woman  with  soul. 
We  will  say  that  this  unfortunate  wife  one  day  meets 
with  her  ideal  —  a  man  with  brain  and  heart  and  force. 
She  loves  him.  Although  this  man  feels  the  thrill  of  a 
new-found  affinity  he  is  too  noble,  too  honourable  to 
declare  himself.  He  flies  from  the  presence  of  his 
beloved.  She  flies  after  him,  trampling,  with  superb 
indifference,  upon  the  fetters  with  which  an  unenlightened 
social  system  would  bind  her.  Now,  what  will  a  divorce 
cost  ?  Eliza  Ann  Timmins,  the  poetess  of  Sycamore  Gap, 
got  one  for  three  hundred  and  forty  dollars.  Can  I  — 
I  mean  can  this  lady  I  speak  of  get  one  that  cheap?" 

"Madam,"  said  Lawyer  Gooch,  "your  last  two  or 
three  sentences  delight  me  with  their  intelligence  and 
clearness.  Can  we  not  now  abandon  the  hypothetical 
and  come  down  to  names  and  business  ?" 

"I  should  say  so,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  adopting  the 
practical  with  admirable  readiness.  "Thomas  R.  Bil 
lings  is  the  name  of  the  low  brute  who  stands  between 
the  happiness  of  his  legal  — his  legal,  but  not  his  spiri 
tual  —  wife  and  Henry  K.  Jessup,  the  noble  man  whom 
nature  intended  for  her  mate.  I,"  concluded  the  client, 
with  an  air  of  dramatic  revelation,  "am  Mrs.  Billings!" 

"Gentlemen  to  see  you,  sir,"  shouted  Archibald,  invad 
ing  the  room  almost  at  a  handspring.  Lawyer  Gooch 
arose  from  his  chair. 


The  Hypotheses  of  Failure  47 

"Mrs.  Billings,"  be  said  courteously,  "allow  me  to 
conduct  you  into  the  adjoining  office  apartment  for  a  few 
minutes.  I  am  expecting  a  very  wealthy  old  gentleman 
on  business  connected  with  a  will.  In  a  very  short  while 
I  will  join  you,  and  continue  our  consultation." 

With  his  accustomed  chivalrous  manner,  Lawyer 
Gooch  ushered  his  soulful  client  into  the  remaining 
unoccupied  room,  and  came  out,  closing  the  door  with 
circumspection. 

The  next  visitor  introduced  by  Archibald  was  a  thin, 
nervous,  irritable-looking  man  of  middle  age,  with  a 
worried  and  apprehensive  expression  of  countenance. 
He  carried  in  one  hand  a  small  satchel,  which  he  set  down 
upon  the  floor  beside  the  chair  which  the  lawyer  placed 
for  him.  His  clothing  was  of  good  quality,  but  it  was  worn 
without  regard  to  neatness  or  style,  and  appeared  to  be 
covered  with  the  dust  of  travel. 

"You  make  a  specialty  of  divorce  cases,"  he  said,  in 
an  agitated  but  business-like  tone. 

"I  may  say,"  began  Lawyer  Gooch,  "that  my  prac 
tice  has  not  altogether  avoided 

"I  know  you  do,"  interrupted  client  number  three. 
"  You  needn't  tell  me.  I've  heard  all  about  you.  I  have 
a  case  to  lay  before  you  without  necessarily  disclosing 
any  connection  that  I  might  have  with  it  —  that  is " 

"You  wish,"  said  Lawyer  Gooch,  "to  state  a  hypo 
thetical  case." 

"You  may  call  it  that.  I  am  a  plain  man  of  business. 
I  will  be  as  brief  as  possible.  We  will  first  take  up  the 


48  Whirligigs 

hypothetical  woman.  We  will  say  she  is  married  uncon- 
genialiy.  In  many  ways  she  is  a  superior  woman.  Phys 
ically  she  is  considered  to  be  handsome.  She  is  devoted 
to  what  she  calls  literature  —  poetry  and  prose,  and 
such  stuff.  Her  husband  is  a  plain  man  in  the  business 
walks  of  life.  Their  home  has  not  been  happy,  although 
the  husband  has  tried  to  make  it  so.  Some  time  ago  a 
man  —  a  stranger  —  came  to  the  peaceful  town  in  which 
they  lived  and  engaged  in  some  real  estate  operations. 
This  woman  met  him,  and  became  unaccountably  infatu 
ated  with  him.  Her  attentions  became  so  open  that  the 
man  felt  the  community  to  be  no  safe  place  for  him,  so 
he  left  it.  She  abandoned  husband  and  home,  and 
followed  him.  She  forsook  her  home,  where  she  was 
provided  with  every  comfort,  to  follow  this  man  who  had 
inspired  her  with  such  a  strange  affection.  Is  there  any 
thing  more  to  be  deplored,"  concluded  the  client,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  "than  the  wrecking  of  a  home  by  a 
woman's  uncalculating  folly?" 

Lawyer  Gooch  delivered  the  cautious  opinion  that  there 
was  not. 

"This  man  she  has  gone  to  join,"  resumed  the  visitor, 
"is  not  the  man  to  make  her  happy.  It  is  a  wild  and 
foolish  self-deception  that  makes  her  think  he  will.  Her 
husband,  in  spite  of  their  many  disagreements,  is  the  only 
one  capable  of  dealing  with  her  sensitive  and  peculiar 
nature.  But  this  she  does  not  realize  now." 

"Would  you  consider  a  divorce  the  logical  cure  in  the 
case  you  present?"  asked  Lawyer  Gooch,  who  felt  that 


The  Hypotheses  of  Failure  49 

the  conversation  was  wandering  too  far  from  the  field  of 
business. 

"A  divorce!"  exclaimed  the  client,  feelingly — almost 
tearfully.  "No,  no  —  not  that.  I  have  read,  Mr.  Gooch, 
of  many  instances  where  your  sympathy  and  kindly  inter 
est  led  you  to  act  as  a  mediator  between  estranged  hus 
band  and  wife,  and  brought  them  together  again.  Let  us 
drop  the  hypothetical  case  —  I  need  conceal  no  longer 
that  it  is  I  who  am  the  sufferer  in  this  sad  affair  —  the 
names  you  shall  have  —  Thomas  R.  Billings  and  wife  — 
and  Henry  K.  Jessup,  the  man  with  whom  she  is 
infatuated." 

Client  number  three  laid  his  hand  upon  Mr.  Gooch's 
arm.  Deep  emotion  was  written  upon  his  careworn 
face.  "For  Heaven's  sake,"  he  said  fervently,  "help 
me  in  this  hour  of  trouble.  Seek  out  Mrs.  Billings,  and 
persuade  her  to  abandon  this  distressing  pursuit  of  her 
lamentable  folly.  Tell  her,  Mr.  Gooch,  that  her  husband 
is  willing  to  receive  her  back  to  his  heart  and  home  — 
promise  her  anything  that  will  induce  her  to  return.  I 
have  heard  of  your  success  in  these  matters.  Mrs.  Bil 
lings  cannot  be  very  far  away.  I  am  worn  out  with  travel 
and  weariness.  Twice  during  the  pursuit  I  saw  her, 
but  various  circumstances  prevented  our  having  an  inter 
view.  Will  you  undertake  this  mission  for  me,  Mr. 
Gooch,  and  earn  nay  everlasting  gratitude?" 

"It  is  true,"  said  Lawyer  Gooch,  frowning  slightly  at 
the  other's  last  words,  but  immediately  calling  up  an 
expression  of  virtuous  benevolence,  "that  on  a  number 


50  Whirligigs 

of  occasions  I  have  been  successful  in  persuading  couples 
who  sought  the  severing  of  their  matrimonial  bonds  to 
think  better  of  their  rash  intentions  and  return  to  their 
homes  reconciled.  But  I  assure  you  that  the  work  is 
often  exceedingly  difficult.  The  amount  of  argument, 
perseverance,  and,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  it,  eloquence 
that  it  requires  would  astonish  you.  But  this  is  a  case 
in  which  my  sympathies  would  be  wholly  enlisted.  I 
feel  deeply  for  you  sir,  and  I  would  be  most  happy  to  see 
husband  and  wife  reunited.  But  my  time,"  concluded 
the  lawyer,  looking  at  his  watch  as  if  suddenly  reminded 
of  the  fact,  "is  valuable." 

"I  am  aware  of  that,"  said  the  client,  "and  if  you 
will  take  the  case  and  persuade  Mrs.  Billings  to  return 
home  and  leave  the  man  alone  that  she  is  following  — 
on  that  day  I  will  pay  you  the  sum  of  one  thousand 
dollars.  I  have  made  a  little  money  in  real  estate  during 
the  recent  boom  in  Susanville,  and  I  will  not  begrudge 
that  amount." 

"Retain  your  seat  for  a  few  moments,  please,"  said 
Lawyer  Gooch,  arising,  and  again  consulting  his  watch. 
"I  have  another  client  waiting  in  an  adjoining  room  whom 
I  had  very  nearly  forgotten.  I  will  return  in  the  briefest 
possible  space." 

The  situation  was  now  one  that  fully  satisfied  Lawyer 
Gooch's  love  of  intricacy  and  complication.  lie  revelled 
in  cases  that  presented  such  subtle  problems  and  possi 
bilities.  It  pleased  him  to  think  that  he  was  master  of  the 
happiness  and  fate  of  the  three  individuals  who  sat,  uncon- 


The  Hypotheses  of  Failure  51 

scious  of  one  another's  presence,  within  his  reach.  His 
old  figure  of  the  ship  glided  into  his  mind.  But  now  the 
figure  failed,  for  to  have  filled  every  compartment  of  an 
actual  vessel  would  have  been  to  endanger  her  safety; 
while  here,  with  his  compartments  full,  his  ship  of  affairs 
could  but  sail  on  to  the  advantageous  port  of  a  fine,  fat 
fee.  The  thing  for  him  to  do,  of  course,  was  to  wring 
the  best  bargain  he  could  from  some  one  of  his  anxious 
cargo. 

First  he  called  to  the  office  boy:  "Lock  the  outer 
door,  Archibald,  and  admit  no  one."  Then  he  moved, 
with  long,  silent  strides  into  the  room  in  which  client 
number  one  waited.  That  gentleman  sat,  patiently 
scanning  the  pictures  in  the  magazine,  with  a  cigar  in  his 
mouth  and  his  feet  upon  a  table. 

"Well,"  he  remarked,  cheerfully,  as  the  lawyer  entered, 
"have  you  made  up  your  mind?  Does  five  hundred 
dollars  go  for  getting  the  fair  lady  a  divorce  ?" 

"You  mean  that  as  a  retainer?"  asked  Lawyer  Gooch, 
softly  interrogative. 

"Hey?  No;  for  the  whole  job.  It's  enough,  ain't 
it?" 

"My  fee,"  said  Lawyer  Gooch,  "would  be  one  thousand 
five  hundred  dollars.  Five  hundred  dollars  down,  and 
the  remainder  upon  issuance  of  the  divorce." 

A  loud  whistle  came  from  client  number  one.  His 
feet  descended  to  the  floor. 

"Guess  we  can't  close  the  deal,"  he  said,  arising.  "I 
cleaned  up  five  hunderd  dollars  in  a  little  real  estate 


52  Whirligigs 

dicker  down  in  Susanville.  I'd  do  anything  I  could  to 
free  the  lady,  but  it  out-sizes  my  pile." 

"Could  you  stand  one  thousand  two  hundred  dollars?" 
asked  the  lawyer,  insinuatingly. 

"Five  hundred  is  my  limit,  I  tell  you.  Guess  I'll 
have  to  hunt  up  a  cheaper  lawyer."  The  client  put  on 
his  hat. 

"Out  this  way,  please,"  said  Lawyer  Gooch,  opening 
the  door  that  led  into  the  hallway. 

As  the  gentleman  flowed  out  of  the  compartment  and 
down  the  stairs,  Lawyer  Gooch  smiled  to  himself.  "Exit 
Mr.  Jessup,"  he  murmured,  as  he  fingered  the  Henry 
Clay  tuft  of  hair  at  his  ear.  "And  now  for  the  forsaken 
husband."  He  returned  to  the  middle  office,  and  assumed 
a  businesslike  manner. 

"I  understand,"  he  said  to  client  number  three,  "that 
you  agree  to  pay  one  thousand  dollars  if  I  bring  about, 
or  am  instrumental  in  bringing  about,  the  return  of  Mrs. 
Billings  to  her  home,  and  her  abandonment  of  her  infatu 
ated  pursuit  of  the  man  for  whom  she  has  conceived  such 
a  violent  fancy.  Also  that  the  case  is  now  unreservedly  in 
my  hands  on  that  basis.  Is  that  correct  ?  " 

"Entirely,"  said  the  other,  eagerly.  "And  I  can 
produce  the  cash  any  time  at  two  hours'  notice." 

Lawyer  Gooch  stood  up  at  his  full  height.  His  thin 
figure  seemed  to  expand.  His  thumbs  sought  the  arm- 
holes  of  his  vest.  Upon  his  face  was  a  look  of  sym 
pathetic  benignity  that  he  always  wore  during  such 
undertakings. 


The  Hypotheses  of  Failure  53 

"Then,  sir,"  he  said,  in  kindly  tones,  "I  think  I  can 
promise  you  an  early  relief  from  your  troubles.  I  have 
that  much  confidence  in  my  powers  of  argument  and 
persuasion,  in  the  natural  impulses  of  the  human  heart 
toward  good,  and  in  the  strong  influence  of  a  husband's 
unfaltering  love.  Mrs.  Billings,  sir,  is  here  —  in  that 
room  -  '  the  lawyer's  long  arm  pointed  to  the  door. 
"  I  will  call  her  in  at  once;  and  our  united  pleadings  — 

Lawyer  Gooch  paused,  for  client  number  three  had 
leaped  from  his  chair  as  if  propelled  by  steel  springs,  and 
clutched  his  satchel. 

"What  the  devil,"  he  exclaimed,  harshly,  "do  you 
mean?  That  woman  in  there!  I  thought  I  shook  her 
off  forty  miles  back." 

He  ran  to  the  open  window,  looked  out  below,  and  threw 
one  leg  over  the  sill. 

"Stop!"  cried  Lawyer  Gooch,  in  amazement.  " What 
would  you  do?  Come,  Mr.  Billings,  and  face  your 
erring  but  innocent  wife.  Our  combined  entreaties  cannot 
lail  to 

"Billings!"  shouted  the  now  thoroughly  moved  client; 
""I'll  Billings  you,  you  old  idiot!" 

Turning,  he  hurled  his  satchel  with  fury  at  the  lawyer's 
head.  It  struck  that  astounded  peacemaker  between 
the  eyes,  causing  him  to  stagger  backward  a  pace  or  two. 
When  Lawyer  Gooch  recovered  his  wits  he  saw  that  his 
client  had  disappeared.  Rushing  to  the  window,  he 
leaned  out,  and  saw  the  recreant  gathering  himself  up  from 
the  top  of  a  shed  upon  which  he  had  dropped  from  the 


54  Whirligigs 

second-story  window.  Without  stopping  to  collect  his 
hat  he  then  plunged  downward  the  remaining  ten  feet 
to  the  alley,  up  which  he  flew  with  prodigious  celerity 
until  the  surrounding  building  swallowed  him  up  from 
view. 

Lawyer  Gooch  passed  his  hand  tremblingly  across  his 
brow.  It  was  an  habitual  act  with  him,  serving  to  clear 
his  thoughts.  Perhaps  also  it  now  seemed  to  soothe  the 
spot  where  a  very  hard  alligator-hide  satchel  had  struck. 

The  satchel  lay  upon  the  floor,  wide  open,  with  its  con 
tents  spilled  about.  Mechanically  Lawyer  Gooch  stooped 
to  gather  up  the  articles.  The  first  was  a  collar;  and 
the  omniscient  eye  of  the  man  of  law  perceived,  wonder- 
ingly,  the  initials  H.  K.  J.  marked  upon  it.  Then  came 
a  comb,  a  brush,  a  folded  map  and  a  piece  of  soap. 
Lastly,  a  handful  of  old  business  letters,  addressed  — 
every  one  of  them  — to  "Henry  K.  Jessup,  Esq." 

Lawyer  Gooch  closed  the  satchel,  and  set  it  upon  the 
table.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  put  on  his  hat 
and  walked  into  the  office  boy's  anteroom. 

"Archibald,"  he  said  mildly,  as  he  opened  the  hall  door, 
"I  am  going  around  to  the  Supreme  Court  rooms.  In  five 
minutes  you  may  step  into  the  inner  office,  and  inform  the 
lady  who  is  waiting  there  that" — here  Lawyer  Gooch 
made  use  of  the  vernacular  —  "that  there's  nothing 
doing." 


IV 
GALLOWAY'S  CODE 

1  HE  New  York  Enterprise  sent  H.  B.  Galloway  as 
special  correspondent  to  the  Russo-Japanese-Portsmouth 
war. 

For  two  months  Galloway  hung  about  Yokohama 
and  Tokio,  shaking  dice  with  the  other  correspondents 
for  drinks  of  'rickshaws  —  oh,  no,  that's  something  to 
ride  in;  anyhow,  he  wasn't  earning  the  salary  that  his 
paper  was  paying  him.  But  that  was  not  Galloway's 
fault.  The  little  brown  men  who  held  the  strings  of 
Fate  between  their  fingers  were  not  ready  for  the  readers 
of  the  Enterprise  to  season  their  breakfast  bacon  and 
eggs  with  the  battles  of  the  descendants  of  the  gods. 

But  soon  the  column  of  correspondents  that  were  to 
go  out  with  the  First  Army  tightened  their  field-glass 
belts  and  went  down  to  the  Yalu  with  Kuroki.  Galloway 
was  one  of  these. 

Now,  this  is  no  history  of  the  battle  of  the  Yalu  River. 
That  has  been  told  in  detail  by  the  correspondents  who 
gazed  at  the  shrapnel  smoke  rings  from  a  distance  of 
three  miles.  But,  for  justice's  sake,  let  it  be  understood 
that  the  Japanese  commander  prohibited  a  nearer  view. 

Galloway's  feat  was  accomplished  before  the  battle. 

55 


56  Whirligigs 

What  he  did  was  to  furnish  the  Enterprise  with  the 
biggest  beat  of  the  war.  That  paper  published  exclu 
sively  and  in  detail  the  news  of  the  attack  on  the  lines  of 
the  Russian  General  Zassulitch  on  the  same  day  that  it 
was  made.  No  other  paper  printed  a  word  about  it  for 
two  days  afterward,  except  a  London  paper,  whose 
account  was  absolutely  incorrect  and  untrue. 

Galloway  did  this  in  face  of  the  fact  that  General  Kuroki 
was  making  his  moves  and  laying  his  plans  with  the  pro- 
foundest  secrecy  as  far  as  the  world  outside  his  camps  was 
concerned.  The  correspondents  were  forbidden  to  send  out 
any  news  whatever  of  his  plans;  and  every  message  that 
was  allowed  on  the  wires  was  censored  with  rigid  severity. 

The  correspondent  for  the  London  paper  handed  in 
a  cablegram  describing  Kuroki's  plans;  but  as  it  was 
wrong  from  beginning  to  end  the  censor  grinned  and  let 
it  go  through. 

So,  there  they  were  —  Kuroki  on  one  side  of  the  Yalu 
with  forty-two  thousand  infantry,  five  thousand  cavalry, 
and  one  hundred  and  twenty-four  guns.  On  the  other 
side,  Zassulitch  waited  for  him  with  only  twenty-three 
thousand  men,  and  with  a  long  stretch  of  river  to  guard. 
And  Galloway  had  got  hold  of  some  important  inside 
information  that  he  knew  would  bring  the  Enterprise 
staff  around  a  cablegram  as  thick  as  flies  around  a  Park 
Row  lemonade  stand.  If  he  could  only  get  that  message 
past  the  censor  —  the  new  censor  who  had  arrived  and 
taken  his  post  that  day! 

Galloway  did  the  obviously  proper  thing.    He  lit  his  pipe 


Galloway's  Code  57 

and  sat  down  on  a  gun  carriage  to  think  it  over.  And 
there  we  must  leave  him ;  for  the  rest  of  the  story  belongs 
to  Vesey,  a  sixteen-dollar-a-week  reporter  on  the  Enterprise. 

Galloway's  cablegram  was  handed  to  the  managing  editor 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  He  read  it  three  times;  and 
then  drew  a  pocket  mirror  from  a  pigeon-hole  in  his  desk, 
and  looked  at  his  reflection  carefully.  Then  he  went  over  to 
the  desk  of  Boyd,  his  assistant  (he  usually  called  Boyd  when 
he  wanted  him),  and  laid  the  cablegram  before  him. 

"It's  from  Galloway,"  he  said.  "See  what  you  make 
of  it." 

The  message  w&a  dieted  at  Wi-ju,  and  these  were  the 
words  of  it: 

Foregone  preconcerted  rash  witching  goes  muffled 
rumour  mine  dark  silent  unfortunate  richmond  existing 
great  hotly  brute  select  mooted  parlous  beggars  ye  angel 
incontrovertible. 

Boyd  read  it  twice. 

"It's  either  a  cipher  or  a  sunstroke,"  said  he. 

"  Ever  hear  of  anything  like  a  code  in  the  office  —  a 
secret  code?"  asked  the  m.  e.,  who  had  held  his  desk 
for  only  two  years.  Managing  editors  come  and  go. 

"  None  except  the  vernacular  that  the  lady  specials  write 
in,"  said  Boyd.  "Couldn't  be  an  acrostic,  could  it?" 

"I  thought  of  that,"  said  the  m.  e.,  "but  the  beginning 
letters  contain  only  four  vowels.  It  must  be  a  code  of 
some  sort." 


58  Whirligigs 

"Try  em  n  groups,"  suggested  Boycl.  "Let's  see 
— '  Rash  witching  goes '  -—  not  with  me  it  doesn't.  '  Muf 
fled  rumour  mine '  —  must  have  an  underground  wire. 
4  Dark  silent  unfortunate  richmond '  -  —  no  reason  why  he 
should  knock  that  town  so  hard.  '  Existing  great  hotly ' 

—  no,  it  doesn't  pan  out.     I'll  call  Scott." 

The  city  editor  came  in  a  hurry,  and  tried  his  luck. 
A  city  editor  must  know  something  about  everything; 
so  Scott  knew  a  little  about  cipher-writing. 

"  It  may  be  what  is  called  an  inverted  alphabet  cipher," 
said  he.  "I'll  try  that.  'R'  seems  to  be  the  oftenest 
used  initial  letter,  with  the  exception  of  '  m.'  Assuming 
'r'  to  mean  'e',  the  most  frequently  used  vowel,  we 
transpose  the  letters  —  so." 

Scott  worked  rapidly  with  his  pencil  for  two  minutes; 
and  then  showed  the  first  word  according  to  his  reading 

—  the  word  "  Scejtzez." 

"Great!"  cried  Boyd.  "It's  a  charade.  My  first 
is  a  Russian  general.  Go  on,  Scott." 

"No,  that  won't  work,"  said  the  city  editor.  "It's 
undoubtedly  a  code.  It's  impossible  to  read  it  without 
the  key.  Has  the  office  ever  used  a  cipher  code  ?  " 

"  Just  what  I  was  asking,"  said  the  m.e.  "  Hustle 
everybody  up  that  ought  to  know.  We  must  get  at  it 
some  way.  Galloway  has  evidently  got  hold  of  some 
thing  big,  and  the  censor  has  put  the  screws  on,  or  he 
wouldn't  have  cabled  in  a  lot  of  chop  suey  like  this." 

Throughout  the  office  of  the  Enterprise  a  drag-net 
was  sent,  hauling  in  such  members  of  the  staff  as  would 


Galloway's  Code  59 

be  likely  to  know  of  a  code,  past  or  present,  by  reason 
of  their  wisdom,  information,  natural  intelligence,  or 
length  of  servitude.  They  got  together  in  a  group  in 
the  city  room,  with  the  m.  e.  in  the  centre.  No  one  had 
heard  of  a  code.  All  began  to  explain  to  the  head  investi 
gator  that  newspapers  never  use  a  code,  anyhow  —  that 
is,  a  cipher  code.  Of  course  the  Associated  Press  stuff 
is  a  sort  of  code  —  an  abbreviation,  rather  —  but 

The  m.  e.  knew  all  that,  and  said  so.  He  asked  each  man 
how  long  he  had  worked  on  the  paper.  Not  one  of  them 
had  drawn  pay  from  an  Enterprise  envelope  for  longer  than 
six  years.  Galloway  had  been  on  the  paper  twelve  years. 

"Try  old  Heffelbauer,"  said  the  m.  e.  "He  was  here 
when  Park  Row  was  a  potato  patch." 

Heffelbauer  was  an  institution.  He  was  half  janitor, 
half  handy-man  about  the  office,  and  half  watchman  — 
thus  becoming  the  peer  of  thirteen  and  one-half  tailors. 
Sent  for,  he  came,  radiating  his  nationality. 

"Heffelbauer,"  said  the  m.  e.,  "did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
code  belonging  to  the  office  a  long  time  ago  —  a  private 
code  ?  You  know  what  a  code  is,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yah,"  said  Heffelbauer.  "  Sure  I  know  vat  a  code  is. 
Yah,  apout  dwelf  or  fifteen  year  ago  der  office  had  a  code. 
Der  reborters  in  der  city-room  haf  it  here." 

"Ah!"  said  the  m.  e.  "We're  getting  on  the  trail  now. 
Where  was  it  kept,  Heffelbauer?  What  do  you  know 
about  it?" 

"Somedimes,"  said  the  retainer,  "dey  keep  it  in  der 
little  room  behind  der  library  room." 


60  Whirligigs 

"  Can  you  find  it  ?  "  asked  the  m.  e.  eagerly.  "  Do  you 
know  where  it  is  ? " 

"Mein  Gott!"  said  Heffelbauer.  "How  long  you 
dink  a  code  live?  Der  reborters  call  him  a  maskeet. 
But  von  day  he  butt  mit  his  head  der  editor, 
und " 

"  Oh,  he's  talking  about  a  goat,"  said  Boyd.  "  Get 
out,  Heffelbauer." 

Again  discomfited,  the  concerted  wit  and  resource  of 
the  Enterprise  huddled  around  Galloway's  puzzle,  con 
sidering  its  mysterious  words  in  vain. 

Then  Vesey  came  in. 

Vesey  was  the  youngest  reporter.  He  had  a  thirty- 
two-inch  chest  and  wore  a  number  fourteen  collar;  but 
his  bright  Scotch  plaid  suit  gave  him  presence  and  con 
ferred  no  obscurity  upon  his  whereabouts.  He  wore  his 
hat  in  such  a  position  that  people  followed  him  about  to 
see  him  take  it  off,  convinced  that  it  must  be  hung  upon 
a  peg  driven  into  the  back  of  his  head.  He  was  never 
without  an  immense,  knotted,  hard- wood  cane  with  a 
German-silver  tip  on  its  crooked  handle.  Vesey  was 
the  best  photograph  hustler  in  the  office.  Scott  said  it 
was  because  no  living  human  being  could  resist  the  per 
sonal  triumph  it  was  to  hand  his  picture  over  to  Vesey. 
Vesey  always  wrote  his  own  news  stories,  except  the  big 
ones,  which  were  sent  to  the  rewrite  men.  Add  to  this 
fact  that  among  all  the  inhabitants,  temples,  and  groves 
of  the  earth  nothing  existed  that  could  abash  Vesey,  and 
his  dim  sketch  is  concluded. 


Galloway's  Code  61 

Vesey  butted  into  the  circle  of  cipher  readers  very  much 
as  Heffelbauer's  "code"  would  have  done,  and  asked 
what  was  up.  Some  one  explained,  with  the  touch  of 
half-familiar  condescension  that  they  always  used  toward 
him.  Vesey  reached  out  and  took  the  cablegram  from 
the  m.  e.'s  hand.  Under  the  protection  of  some  special 
Providence,  he  was  always  doing  appalling  things  like 
that,  and  coming  off  unscathed. 

"It's  a  code,"  said  Vesey.     "Anybody  got  the  key?" 

"The  office  has  no  code,"  said  Boyd,  reaching  for  the 
message.  Vesey  held  to  it. 

"Then  old  Galloway  expects  us  to  read  it,  anyhow," 
said  he.  "He's  up  a  tree,  or  something,  and  he's  made 
this  up  so  as  to  get  it  by  the  censor.  It's  up  to  us.  Gee ! 
I  wish  they  had  sent  me,  too.  Say  —  we  can't  afford  to 
fall  down  on  our  end  of  it.  'Foregone,  preconcerted 
rash,  witching'  -—  h'm." 

Vesey  sat  down  on  a  table  corner  and  began  to  whistle 
softly,  frowning  at  the  cablegram. 

"Let's  have  it,  please,"  said  the  m.  e.  "We've  got  to 
get  to  work  on  it." 

"I  believe  I've  got  a  line  on  it,"  said  Vesey.  "Give 
me  ten  minutes." 

He  walked  to  his  desk,  threw  his  hat  into  a  waste-basket, 
spread  out  flat  on  his  chest  like  a  gorgeous  lizard,  and 
started  his  pencil  going.  The  wit  and  wisdom  of  the 
Enterprise  remained  in  a  loose  group,  and  smiled  at  one 
another,  nodding  their  heads  toward  Vesey.  Then  they 
began  to  exchange  their  theories  about  the  cipher. 


62  Whirligigs 

It  took  Vesey  exactly  fifteen  minutes.  He  brought  to 
the  m.  e.  a  pad  with  the  code-key  written  on  it. 

"I  felt  the  swing  of  it  as  soon  as  I  saw  it,"  said  Vesey. 
"Hurrah  for  old  Galloway!  He's  done  the  Japs  and 
every  paper  in  town  that  prints  literature  instead  of  news. 
Take  a  look  at  that." 

Thus  had  Vesey  set  forth  the  reading  of  the  code : 

Foregone  —  conclusion 

Preconcerted  —  arrangement 

Rash  —  act 

Witching  —  hour  of  midnight 

Goes  —  without  saying 

Muffled  —  report 

Rumour  —  hath  it 

Mine  —  host 

Dark  —  horse 

Silent  —  majority 

Unfortunate  —  pedestrians  * 

Richmond  —  in  the  field 

Existing  —  conditions 

Great  —  White  Way 

Hotly  —  contested 

Brute  —  force 

Select  —  few 

Mooted  —  question 

Parlous  —  times 

Beggars  —  description 

Ye  —  correspondent 

Angel  —  unawares 

Incontrovertible  —  fact 


*  Mr.  Vesey  afterward  explained  that  the  logical  journalistic  complement  of  the 
word  "  unfortunate  "  was  once  the  word  "  victim.  "  But,  since  the  automobile  be 
came  so  popular,  the  correct  following  word  is  now  "  pedestrians.  "  Of  course,  in 
Galloway's  code  it  meant  infantry. 


Calloway's  Code  63 

"It's  simply  newspaper  English,"  explained  Vesey. 
"I've  been  reporting  on  the  Enterprise  long  enough  to 
know  it  by  heart.  Old  Galloway  gives  us  the  cue  word, 
and  we  use  the  word  that  naturally  follows  it  just  as  we 
use  'em  in  the  paper.  Read  it  over,  and  you'll  see  how 
pat  they  drop  into  their  places.  Now,  here's  the  message 
he  intended  us  to  get." 

Vesey  handed  out  another  sheet  of  paper. 

Concluded  arrangement  to  act  at  hour  of  midnight 
without  saying.  Report  hath  it  that  a  large  body  of 
cavalry  and  an  overwhelming  force  of  infantry  will  be 
thrown  into  the  field.  Conditions  white.  Way  con 
tested  by  only  a  small  force.  Question  the  Times  descrip 
tion.  Its  correspondent  is  unaware  of  the  facts. 

"Great  stuff!"  cried  Boyd  excitedly.  "Kuroki  crosses 
the  Yalu  to-night  and  attacks.  Oh,  we  won't  do  a  thing 
to  the  sheets  that  make  up  with  Addison's  essays,  real 
estate  transfers,  and  bowling  scores!" 

"Mr.  Vesey,"  said  the  m.  e.,  with  his  jollying  -  which  - 
you  -  should  -  regard  -  as  -  a  -  favour  manner,  "you  have 
cast  a  serious  reflection  upon  the  literary  standards  of 
the  paper  that  employs  you.  You  have  also  assisted 
materially  in  giving  us  the  biggest  'beat'  of  the  year.  I 
will  let  you  know  in  a  day  or  two  whether  you  are  to  be 
discharged  or  retained  at  a  larger  salary.  Somebody 
send  Ames  to  me." 

Ames  was  the  king-pin,  the  snowy-petalled  marguerite, 
the  star-bright  looloo  of  the  rewrite  men.  He  saw 


64  Whirligigs 

attempted  murder  in  the  pains  of  green-apple  colic, 
cyclones  in  the  summer  zephyr,  lost  children  in  every  top- 
spinning  urchin,  an  uprising  of  the  down-trodden  masses  in 
every  hurling  of  a  derelict  potato  at  a  passing  automobile. 
When  not  rewriting,  Ames  sat  on  the  porch  of  his  Brooklyn 
villa  playing  checkers  with  his  ten-year-old  son. 

Ames  and  the  "war  editor"  shut  themselves  in  a  room. 
There  was  a  map  in  there  stuck  full  of  little  pins  that 
represented  armies  and  divisions.  Their  fingers  had 
been  itching  for  days  to  move  those  pins  along  the  crooked 
line  of  the  Yalu.  They  did  so  now;  and  in  words  of  fire 
Ames  translated  Galloway's  brief  message  into  a  front 
page  masterpiece  that  set  the  world  talking.  He  told  of 
the  secret  councils  of  the  Japanese  officers ;  gave  Kuroki's 
flaming  speeches  in  full;  counted  the  cavalry  and  infantry 
to  a  man  and  a  horse;  described  the  quick  and  silent 
building  of  the  bridge  at  Suikauchen,  across  which  the 
Mikado's  legions  were  hurled  upon  the  surprised  Zas- 
sulitch,  whose  troops  were  widely  scattered  along  the  river. 
And  the  battle! — well,  you  know  what  Ames  can  do 
with  a  battle  if  you  give  him  just  one  smell  of  smoke  for 
a  foundation.  And  in  the  same  story,  with  seemingly 
supernatural  knowledge,  he  gleefully  scored  the  most 
profound  and  ponderous  paper  in  England  for  the  false 
and  misleading  aejount  of  the  intended  movements  of 
the  Japanese  First  Army  printed  in  its  issue  of  the  same  date. 

Only  one  error  was  made;  and  that  was  the  fault  of 
the  cable  operator  at  Wi-ju.  Galloway  pointed  it  out 
after  he  came  back.  The  word  "great"  in  his  code 


Galloway's  Code  65 

should  have  been  "gage,"  and  its  complemental  words 
"of  battle."  But  it  went  to  Ames  "conditions  white," 
and  of  course  he  took  that  to  mean  snow.  His  description 
of  the  Japanese  army  struggling  through  the  snowstorm, 
blinded  by  the  whirling  flakes,  was  thrillingly  vivid.  The 
artists  turned  out  some  effective  illustrations  that  made  a 
hit  as  pictures  of  the  artillery  dragging  their  guns  through 
the  drifts.  But,  as  the  attack  was  made  on  the  first  day 
of  May  the  "conditions  white"  excited  some  amusement. 
But  it  made  no  difference  to  the  Enterprise,  anyway. 

It  was  wonderful.  And  Galloway  was  wonderful  in 
having  made  the  new  censor  believe  that  his  jargon  of 
words  meant  no  more  than  a  complaint  of  the  dearth  of 
news  and  a  petition  for  more  expense  money.  And 
Vesey  was  wonderful.  And  most  wonderful  of  all  are 
words,  and  how  they  make  friends  one  with  another, 
being  oft  associated,  until  not  even  obituary  notices 
them  do  part. 

On  the  second  day  following,  the  city  editor  halted  at 
Vesey's  desk  where  the  reporter  was  writing  the  story  of 
a  man  who  had  broken  his  leg  by  falling  into  a  coal-hole 

—  Ames  having  failed  to  find  a  murder  motive  in  it. 
"The  old  man  says  your  salary  is  to  be  raised  to  twenty 

a  week,"  said  Scott. 

"All   right,"    said   Vesey.     "Every   little   helps.     Say 

—  Mr.    Scott,  which    would    you    say  —  '  We  can  state 
without  fear  of  successful  contradiction,'  or,  'On  the  whole 
it  can  be  safely  asserted'  ?" 


V 
A  MATTER  OF  MEAN  ELEVATION 

ONE  winter  the  Alcazar  Opera  Company  of  New 
Orleans  made  a  speculative  trip  along  the  Mexican, 
Central  American  and  South  American  coasts.  The 
venture  proved  a  most  successful  one.  The  music- 
loving,  impressionable  Spanish-Americans  deluged  the 
company  with  dollars  and  "vivas."  The  manager  waxed 
plump  and  amiable.  But  for  the  prohibitive  climate 
he  would  have  put  forth  the  distinctive  flower  of  his 
prosperity  —  the  overcoat  of  fur,  braided,  frogged  and 
opulent.  Almost  was  he  persuaded  to  raise  the  salaries 
of  his  company.  But  with  a  mighty  effort  he  conquered 
the  impulse  toward  such  an  unprofitable  effervescence  of 

j°y- 

At  Macuto,  on  the  coast  of  Venezuela,  the  company 
scored  its  greatest  success.  Imagine  Coney  Island 
translated  into  Spanish  and  you  will  comprehend  Macuto. 
The  fashionable  season  is  from  November  to  March. 
Down  from  La  Guayra  and  Caracas  and  Valencia  and 
other  interior  towns  flock  the  people  for  their  holiday  sea 
son.  There  are  bathing  and  fiestas  and  bull  fights  and 
scandal.  And  then  the  people  have  a  passion  for  music 
that  the  bands  in  the  plaza  and  on  the  sea  beach  stir  but 

66 


A  Matter  of  Mean  Elevation  67 

do  not  satisfy.  The  coming  of  the  Alcazar  Opera  Com 
pany  aroused  the  utmost  ardour  and  zeal  among  the 
pleasure  seekers. 

The  illustrious  Guzman  Blanco,  President  and  Dic 
tator  of  Venezuela,  sojourned  in  Macuto  with  his  court 
for  the  season.  That  potent  ruler — who  himself  paid 
a  subsidy  of  40,000  pesos  each  year  to  grand  opera  in 
Caracas  —  ordered  one  of  the  Government  warehouses 
to  be  cleared  for  a  temporary  theatre.  A  stage  was  quickly 
constructed  and  rough  wooden  benches  made  for  the 
audience.  Private  boxes  were  added  for  the  use  of  the 
President  and  the  notables  of  the  army  and  Government. 

The  company  remained  in  Macuto  for  two  weeks. 
Each  performance  filled  the  house  as  closely  as  it  could 
be  packed.  Then  the  music-mad  people  fought  for 
room  in  the  open  doors  and  windows,  and  crowded  about, 
hundreds  deep,  on  the  outside.  Those  audiences  formed 
a  brilliantly  diversified  patch  of  colour.  The  hue  of  their 
faces  ranged  from  the  clear  olive  of  the  pure-blood  Span 
iards  down  through  the  yellow  and  brown  shades  of  the 
Mestizos  to  the  coal-black  Carib  and  the  Jamaica  Negro. 
Scattered  among  them  were  little  groups  of  Indians  with 
faces  like  stone  idols,  wrapped  in  gaudy  fibre-woven 
blankets  —  Indians  down  from  the  mountain  states  of 
Zamora  and  Los  Andes  and  Miranda  to  trade  their  gold 
dust  in  the  coast  towns. 

The  spell  cast  upon  these  denizens  of  the  interior 
fastnesses  was  remarkable.  They  sat  in  petrified  ecstasy, 
conspicuous  among  the  excitable  Macutians,  who  wildly 


68  Whirligigs 

strove  with  tongue  and  hand  to  give  evidence  of  their 
delight.  Only  once  did  the  sombre  rapture  of  these 
aboriginals  find  expression.  During  the  rendition  of 
"Faust,"  Guzman  Blanco,  extravagantly  pleased  by  the 
"Jewel  Song,"  cast  upon  the  stage  a  purse  of  gold  pieces. 
Other  distinguished  citizens  followed  his  lead  to  the  extent 
of  whatever  loose  coin  they  had  convenient,  while  some 
of  the  fair  and  fashionable  senoras  were  moved,  in  imita 
tion,  to  fling  a  jewel  or  a  ring  or  two  at  the  feet  of  the 
Marguerite — who  was,  according  to  the  bills,  Mile. 
Nina  Giraud.  Then,  from  different  parts  of  the  house 
rose  sundry  of  the  stolid  hillmen  and  cast  upon  the  stage 
little  brown  and  dun  bags  that  fell  with  soft  "thumps" 
and  did  not  rebound.  It  was,  no  doubt,  pleasure  at  the 
tribute  to  her  art  that  caused  Mile.  Giraud's  eyes  to 
shine  so  brightly  when  she  opened  these  little  deerskin 
bags  in  her  dressing  room  and  found  them  to  contain 
pure  gold  dust.  If  so,  the  pleasure  was  rightly  hers,  for 
her  voice  in  song,  pure,  strong  and  thrilling  with  the  feeling 
of  the  emotional  artist,  deserved  the  tribute  that  it  earned. 

But  the  triumph  of  the  Alcazar  Opera  Company  is  not 
the  theme:  it  but  leans  upon  and  colours  it.  There 
happened  in  Macuto  a  tragic  thing,  an  unsolvable  mystery, 
that  sobered  for  a  time  the  gaiety  of  the  happy  season. 

One  evening  between  the  short  twilight  and  the  time 
when  she  should  have  whirled  upon  the  stage  in  the  red 
and  black  of  the  ardent  Carmen,  Mile.  Nina  Giraud  dis 
appeared  from  the  sight  and  ken  of  6,000  pairs  of  eyes 
and  as  many  minds  in  Macuto.  There  was  the  usual 


A  Matter  of  Mean  Elevation  69 

turmoil  and  hurrying  to  seek  her.  Messengers  flew  to 
the  little  French-kept  hotel  where  she  stayed;  others  of 
the  company  hastened  here  or  there  where  she  might  be 
lingering  in  some  tienda  or  unduly  prolonging  her  bath 
upon  the  beach.  All  search  was  fruitless.  Mademoi 
selle  had  vanished. 

Half  an  hour  passed  and  she  did  not  appear.  The 
dictator,  unused  to  the  caprices  of  prime  donne,  became 
impatient.  He  sent  an  aide  from  his  box  to  say  to  the 
manager  that  if  the  curtain  did  not  at  once  rise  he  would 
immediately  hale  the  entire  company  to  the  calabosa, 
though  it  would  desolate  his  heart,  indeed,  to  be  com 
pelled  to  such  an  act.  Birds  in  Macuto  could  be  made 
to  sing. 

The  manager  abandoned  hope  for  the  time  of  Mile. 
Giraud.  A  member  of  the  chorus,  who  had  dreamed 
hopelessly  for  years  of  the  blessed  opportunity,  quickly 
Carmenized  herself  and  the  opera  went  on. 

Afterward,  when  the  lost  cantatrice  appeared  not,  the 
aid  of  the  authorities  was  invoked.  The  President  at 
once  set  the  army,  the  police  and  all  citizens  to  the  search. 
Not  one  clue  to  Mile.  Giraud's  disappearance  was  found. 
The  Alcazar  left  to  fill  engagements  farther  down  the 
coast. 

On  the  way  back  the  steamer  stopped  at  Macuto  and 
the  manager  made  anxious  inquiry.  Not  a  trace  of  the 
lady  had  been  discovered.  The  Alcazar  could  do  no 
more.  The  personal  belongings  of  the  missing  lady  were 
stored  in  the  hotel  against  her  possible  later  reappearance 


70  WJdrligigs 

and  the  opera  company  continued  upon  its  homeward 
voyage  to  New  Orleans. 


On  the  camino  real  along  the  beach  the  two  saddle 
mules  and  the  four  pack  mules  of  Don  Senor  Johnny 
Armstrong  stood,  patiently  awaiting  the  crack  of  the  whip 
of  the  arriero,  Luis.  That  would  be  the  signal  for  the 
start  on  another  long  journey  into  the  mountains.  The 
pack  mules  were  loaded  with  a  varied  assortment  of  hard 
ware  and  cutlery.  These  articles  Don  Johnny  traded  to 
the  interior  Indians  for  the  gold  dust  that  they  washed 
from  the  Andean  streams  and  stored  in  quills  and  bags 
against  his  coming.  It  was  a  profitable  business,  and 
Senor  Armstrong  expected  soon  to  be  able  to  purchase 
the  coffee  plantation  that  he  coveted. 

Armstrong  stood  on  the  narrow  sidewalk,  exchanging 
garbled  Spanish  with  old  Peralto,  the  rich  native  merchant 
who  had  just  charged  him  four  prices  for  half  a  gross  of 
pot-metal  hatchets,  and  abridged  English  with  Rucker, 
the  little  German  who  was  Consul  for  the  United  States. 

"Take  with  you,  senor,"  said  Peralto,  "the  blessings 
of  the  saints  upon  your  journey." 

"Better  try  quinine,"  growled  Rucker  through  his  pipe. 
"Take  two  grains  every  night.  And  don't  make  your 
trip  too  long,  Johnny,  because  we  haf  needs  of  you.  It  is 
ein  villainous  game  dot  Melville  play  of  whist,  and  dere 
is  no  oder  substitute.  Auf  wiederschen,  und  keep  your 


A  Matter  of  Mean  Elevation  71 

eyes  dot  mule's  ears  between  when  you  on  der  edge  of 
der  brecipices  ride." 

The  bells  of  Luis's  mule  jingled  and  the  pack  train 
filed  after  the  warning  note.  Armstrong  waved  a  good 
bye  and  took  his  place  at  the  tail  of  the  procession.  Up 
the  narrow  street  they  turned,  and  passed  the  two-story 
wooden  Hotel  Ingles,  where  Ives  and  Dawson  and  Rich 
ards  and  the  rest  of  the  chaps  were  dawdling  on  the  broad 
piazza,  reading  week-old  newspapers.  They  crowded  to 
the  railing  and  shouted  many  friendly  and  wise  and  foolish 
farewells  after  him.  Across  the  plaza  they  trotted  slowly 
past  the  bronze  statue  of  Guzman  Blanco,  within  its  fence 
of  bayoneted  rifles  captured  from  revolutionists,  and  out 
of  the  town  between  the  rows  of  thatched  huts  swarming 
with  the  unclothed  youth  of  Macuto.  They  plunged 
into  the  damp  coolness  of  banana  groves  at  length  to 
emerge  upon  a  bright  stream,  where  brown  women  in 
scant  raiment  laundered  clothes  destructively  upon  the 
rocks.  Then  the  pack  train,  fording  the  stream,  attacked 
the  sudden  ascent,  and  bade  adieu  to  such  civilization  as 
the  coast  afforded. 

For  weeks  Armstrong,  guided  by  Luis,  followed  his 
regular  route  among  the  mountains.  After  he  had  col 
lected  an  arroba  of  the  precious  metal,  winning  a  profit 
of  nearly  $5,000,  the  heads  of  the  lightened  mules  were 
turned  down-trail  again.  Where  the  head  of  the  Guarico 
River  springs  from  a  great  gash  in  the  mountain-side, 
Luis  halted  the  train. 

"Half  a  day's  journey  from  here,   Senor,"   said  he, 


72  Whirligigs 

"  is  the  village  of  Tacuzama,  which  we  have  never  visited, 
I  think  many  ounces  of  gold  may  be  procured  there.  It 
is  worth  the  trial." 

Armstrong  concurred,  and  they  turned  again  upward 
toward  Tacuzama.  The  trail  was  abrupt  and  precipi 
tous,  mounting  through  a  dense  forest.  As  night  fell, 
dark  and  gloomy,  Luis  once  more  halted.  Before  them 
was  a  black  chasm,  bisecting  the  path  as  far  as  they  could 
see. 

Luis  dismounted.  "There  should  be  a  bridge,"  he 
called,  and  ran  along  the  cleft  a  distance.  "It  is  here," 
he  cried,  and  remounting,  led  the  way.  In  a  few  moments 
Armstrong  heard  a  sound  as  thoiigh  a  thunderous  drum 
were  beating  somewhere  in  the  dark.  It  was  the  falling 
of  the  mules'  hoofs  upon  the  bridge  made  of  strong  hides 
lashed  to  poles  and  stretched  across  the  chasm.  Half  a 
mile  further  wras  Tacuzama.  The  village  was  a  congre 
gation  of  rock  and  mud  huts  set  in  the  profundity  of  an 
obscure  wood.  As  they  rode  in  a  sound  inconsistent 
with  that  brooding  solitude  met  their  ears.  From  a 
long,  low  mud  hut  that  they  were  nearing  rose  the  glorious 
voice  of  a  woman  in  song.  The  words  were  English, 
the  air  familiar  to  Armstrong's  memory,  but  not  to  his 
musical  knowledge. 

He  slipped  from  his  mule  and  stole  to  a  narrow  window 
in  one  end  of  the  house.  Peering  cautiously  inside,  he 
saw,  within  three  feet  of  him,  a  woman  of  marvellous, 
imposing  beauty,  clothed  in  a  splendid  loose  robe  of 
leopard  skins.  The  hut  was  packed  close  to  the  small 


A  Matter  of  Mean  Elevation  73 

space  in  which  she  stood  with  the  squatting  figures  of 
Indians. 

The  woman  finished  her  song  and  seated  herself  close 
to  the  little  window,  as  if  grateful  for  the  unpolluted  air 
that  entered  it.  When  she  had  ceased  several  of  the 
audience  rose  and  cast  little  softly-falling  bags  at  her  feet. 
A  harsh  murmur  —  no  doubt  a  barbarous  kind  of  applause 
and  comment  —  went  through  the  grim  assembly. 

Armstrong  was  used  to  seizing  opportunities  promptly. 
Taking  advantage  of  the  noise  he  called  to  the  woman  in 
a  low  but  distinct  voice :  "  Do  not  turn  your  head  this  way, 
but  listen.  I  am  an  American.  If  you  need  assistance 
tell  me  how  I  can  render  it.  Answer  as  briefly  as  you  can." 

The  woman  was  worthy  of  his  boldness.  Only  by  a 
sudden  flush  of  her  pale  cheek  did  she  acknowledge 
understanding  of  his  words.  Then  she  spoke,  scarcely 
moving  her  lips. 

"I  am  held  a  prisoner  by  these  Indians.  God  knows 
I  need  help.  In  two  hours  come  to  the  little  hut  twenty 
yards  toward  the  mountain-side.  There  will  be  a  light 
and  a  red  curtain  in  the  window.  There  is  always  a 
guard  at  the  door  whom  you  will  have  to  overcome.  For 
the  lore  of  heaven,  do  not  fail  to  come." 

The  story  seems  to  shrink  from  adventure  and  rescue 
and  mystery.  The  theme  is  one  too  gentle  for  those 
brave  and  quickening  tones.  And  yet  it  reaches  as  far 
back  as  time  itself.  It  has  been  named  "environment," 
which  is  as  weak  a  word  as  any  to  express  the  unnamable 
kinship  of  man  to  nature,  that  queer  fraternity  that  causes 


74  Whirligigs 

stones  and  trees  and  salt  water  and  clouds  to  play  upon 
our  emotions.  Why  are  we  made  serious  and  solemn 
and  sublime  by  mountain  heights,  grave  and  contempla 
tive  by  an  abundance  of  overhanging  trees,  reduced  to 
inconstancy  and  monkey  capers  by  the  ripples  on  a  sandy 
beach  ?  Did  the  protoplasm  —  but  enough.  The  chem 
ists  are  looking  into  the  matter,  and  before  long  they  will 
have  all  life  in  the  table  of  the  symbols. 

Briefly,  then,  in  order  to  confine  the  story  within 
scientific  bounds,  John  Armstrong  went  to  the  hut,  choked 
the  Indian  guard  and  carried  away  Mile.  Giraud.  With 
her  was  also  conveyed  a  number  of  pounds  of  gold  dust 
she  had  collected  during  her  six  months'  forced  engage 
ment  in  Tacuzama.  The  Carabobo  Indians  are  easily 
the  most  enthusiastic  lovers  of  music  between  the  equator 
and  the  French  Opera  House  in  New  Orleans.  They 
are  also  strong  believers  that  the  advice  of  Emerson  was 
good  when  he  said :  "  The  thing  thou  wantest,  O  discon 
tented  man  —  take  it,  and  pay  the  price."  A  number 
of  them  had  attended  the  performance  of  the  Alcazar 
Opera  Company  in  Macuto,  and  found  Mile.  Giraud 's 
style  and  technique  satisfactory.  They  wanted  her,  so 
they  took  her  one  evening  suddenly  and  without  any  fuss. 
They  treated  her  with  much  consideration,  exacting 
only  one  song  recital  each  day.  She  was  quite  pleased  at 
being  rescued  by  Mr.  Armstrong.  So  much  for  mystery 
and  adventure.  Now  to  resume  the  theory  of  the  proto 
plasm. 

John  Armstrong  and   Mile.   Giraud   rode  among  the 


A  Matter  of  Mean  Elevation  75 

Andean  peaks,  enveloped  in  their  greatness  and  sublimity. 
The  mightiest  cousins,  furthest  removed,  in  nature's 
great  family  become  conscious  of  the  tie.  Among  those 
huge  piles  of  primordial  upheaval,  amid  those  gigantic 
silences  and  elongated  fields  of  distance  the  littlenesses 
of  men  are  precipitated  as  one  chemical  throws  down  a 
sediment  from  another.  They  moved  reverently,  as 
in  a  temple.  Their  souls  were  uplifted  in  unison  with  the 
stately  heights.  They  travelled  in  a  zone  of  majesty  and 
peace. 

To  Armstrong  the  woman  seemed  almost  a  holy  thing. 
Yet  bathed  in  the  white,  still  dignity  of  her  martyrdom 
that  purified  her  earthly  beauty  and  gave  out,  it  seemed, 
an  aura  of  transcendent  loveliness,  in  those  first  hours 
of  companionship  she  drew  from  him  an  adoration  that 
was  half  human  love,  half  the  worship  of  a  descended 
goddess. 

Never  yet  since  her  rescue  had  she  smiled.  Over  her 
dress  she  still  wore  the  robe  of  leopard  skins,  for  the 
mountain  air  was  cold.  She  looked  to  be  some  splendid 
princess  belonging  to  those  wild  and  awesome  altitudes. 
The  spirit  of  the  region  chimed  with  hers.  Her  eyes 
were  always  turned  upon  the  sombre  cliffs,  the  blue  gorges 
and  the  snow-clad  turrets,  looking  a  sublime  melancholy 
equal  to  their  own.  At  times  on  the  journey  she  sang 
thrilling  te  deums  and  misereres  that  struck  the  true  note 
of  the  hills,  and  made  their  route  seem  like  a  solemn 
march  down  a  cathedral  aisle.  The  rescued  one  spoke 
but  seldom,  her  mood  partaking  of  the  hush  of  nature 


76  Whirligigs 

that  surrounded  them.  Arr  strong  looked  upon  her  as 
an  angel.  He  could  not  oring  himself  to  the  sacrilege 
of  attempting  to  woo  her  as  other  women  may  be  wooed. 

On  the  third  day  they  had  descended  as  far  as  the 
tierra  templada,  the  zona  of  the  table  lands  and  foot  hills. 
The  mountains  were  receding  in  their  rear,  but  still 
towered,  exhibiting  yet  impressively  their  formidable 
heads.  Here  they  met  signs  of  man.  They  saw  the 
white  houses  of  coffee  plantations  gleam  across  the  clear 
ings.  They  struck  into  a  road  where  they  met  travellers 
and  pack-mules.  Cattle  were  grazing  on  the  slopes. 
They  passed  a  little  village  where  the  round-eyed  ninos 
shrieked  and  called  at  sight  of  them. 

Mile.  Giraud  laid  aside  her  leopard-skin  robe.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  trifle  incongruous  now.  In  the  moun 
tains  it  had  appeared  fitting  and  natural.  And  if  Arm 
strong  was  not  mistaken  she  laid  aside  with  it  something 
of  the  high  dignity  of  her  demeanour.  As  the  country 
became  more  populous  and  significant  of  comfortable 
life  he  saw,  with  a  feeling  of  joy,  that  the  exalted  princess 
and  priestess  of  the  Andean  peaks  was  changing  to  a 
woman  —  an  earth  woman,  but  no  less  enticing.  A 
little  colour  crept  to  the  surface  of  her  marble  cheek. 
She  arranged  the  conventional  dress  that  the  removal  of 
the  robe  now  disclosed  with  the  solicitous  touch  of  one 
who  is  conscious  of  the  eyes  of  others.  She  smoothed 
the  careless  sweep  of  her  hair.  A  mundane  interest, 
long  latent  in  the  chilling  atmosphere  of  the  ascetic  peaks, 
showed  in  her  eyes. 


A  Matter  of  Mean  Elevation  77 

This  thaw  in  his  divinity  sent  Armstrong's  heart  going 
faster.  So  might  an  Arctic  explorer  thrill  at  his  first  ken 
of  green  fields  and  liquescent  waters.  They  were  on 
a  lower  plane  of  earth  and  life  and  were  succumbing  to 
its  peculiar,  subtle  influence.  The  austerity  of  the  hills 
no  longer  thinned  the  air  they  breathed.  About  them 
was  the  breath  of  fruit  and  corn  and  builded  homes, 
the  comfortable  smell  of  smoke  and  warm  earth  and  the 
consolations  man  has  placed  between  himself  and  the 
dust  of  his  brother  earth  from  which  he  sprung.  While 
traversing  those  awful  mountains,  Mile.  Giraud  had 
seemed  to  be  wrapped  in  their  spirit  of  reverent  reserve. 
Was  this  that  same  woman  —  now  palpitating,  warm, 
eager,  throbbing  with  conscious  life  and  charm,  feminine 
to  her  finger-tips?  Pondering  over  this,  Armstrong 
felt  certain  misgivings  intrude  upon  his  thoughts.  He 
wished  he  could  stop  there  with  this  changing  creature, 
descending  no  farther.  Here  was  the  elevation  and 
environment  to  which  her  nature  seemed  to  respond  with 
its  best.  He  feared  to  go  down  upon  the  man-dominated 
levels.  Would  her  spirit  not  yield  still  further  in  that 
artificial  zone  to  which  they  were  descending  ? 

Now  from  a  little  plateau  they  saw  the  sea  flash  at  the 
edge  of  the  green  lowlands.  Mile.  Giraud  gave  a  little, 
catching  sigh. 

"Oh!  look,  Mr.  Armstrong,  there  is  the  sea!  Isn't 
it  lovely?  I'm  so  tired  of  mountains."  She  heaved  a 
pretty  shoulder  in  a  gesture  of  repugnance.  "Those 
horrid  Indians !  Just  think  of  what  I  suffered !  Although 


78  Whirligigs 

I  suppose  I  attained  my  ambition  of  becoming  a  stellar 
attraction,  I  wouldn't  care  to  repeat  the  engagement.  It 
was  very  nice  of  you  to  bring  me  away.  Tell  me,  Mr. 
Armstrong  —  honestly,  now  —  do  I  look  such  an  awful, 
awful  fright  ?  I  haven't  looked  into  a  mirror,  you  know, 
for  months." 

Armstrong  made  answer  according  to  his  changed 
moods.  Also  he  laid  his  hand  upon  hers  as  it  rested  upon 
the  horn  of  her  saddle.  Luis  was  at  the  head  of  the  pack 
train  and  could  not  see.  She  allowed  it  to  remain  there, 
and  her  eyes  smiled  frankly  into  his. 

Then  at  sundown  they  dropped  upon  the  coast  level 
under  the  palms  and  lemons  among  the  vivid  greens  and 
scarlets  and  ochres  of  the  tierra  caliente.  They  rode 
into  Macuto,  and  saw  the  line  of  volatile  bathers  frolick 
ing  in  the  surf.  The  mountains  were  very  far 
away. 

Mile.  Giraud's  eyes  were  shining  with  a  joy  that  could 
not  have  existed  under  the  chaperonage  of  the  mountain- 
tops.  There  were  other  spirits  calling  to  her  —  nymphs 
of  the  orange  groves,  pixies  from  the  chattering  surf, 
imps,  born  of  the  music,  the  perfumes,  colours  and  the 
insinuating  presence  of  humanity.  She  laughed  aloud, 
musically,  at  a  sudden  thought. 

"Won't  there  be  a  sensation  ?"  she  called  to  Armstrong. 
"Don't  I  wish  I  had  an  engagement  just  now,  though! 
What  a  picnic  the  press  agent  would  have!  'Held  a 
prisoner  by  a  band  of  savage  Indians  subdued  by  the 
spell  of  her  wonderful  voice'  —  wouldn't  that  make  great 


A  Matter  of  Mean  Elevation  79 

stuff  ?  But  I  guess  I  quit  the  game  winner,  anyhow  — 
there  ought  to  be  a  couple  of  thousand  dollars  in 
that  sack  of  gold  dust  I  collected  as  encores,  don't  you 
think?" 

He  left  her  at  the  door  of  the  little  Hotel  de  Buen 
Descansar,  where  she  had  stopped  before.  Two  hours 
later  he  returned  to  the  hotel.  He  glanced  in  at  the 
open  door  of  the  little  combined  reception  room  and 
cafe. 

Half  a  dozen  of  Macuto's  representative  social  and 
official  caballeros  were  distributed  about  the  room. 
Senor  Villablanca,  the  wealthy  rubber  concessionist, 
reposed  his  fat  figure  on  two  chairs,  with  an  emollient 
smile  beaming  upon  his  chocolate-coloured  face.  Guil- 
bert,  the  French  mining  engineer,  leered  through  his 
polished  nose-glasses.  Colonel  Mendez,  of  the  regular 
army,  in  gold-laced  uniform  and  fatuous  grin,  was  busily 
extracting  corks  from  champagne  bottles.  Other  pat 
terns  of  Macutian  gallantry  and  fashion  pranced  and 
posed.  The  air  was  hazy  with  cigarette  smoke.  Wine 
dripped  upon  the  floor. 

Perched  upon  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  in  an 
attitude  of  easy  preeminence  was  Mile.  Giraud.  A 
chic  costume  of  white  lawn  and  cherry  ribbons  supplanted 
her  travelling  garb.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  lace,  and 
a  frill  or  two,  with  a  discreet,  small  implication  of  hand- 
embroidered  pink  hosiery.  Upon  her  lap  rested  a  guitar. 
In  her  face  was  the  light  of  resurrection,  the  peace  of 


80  Whirligigs 

elysium  attained  through  fire  and  suffering.     She  was 
singing  to  a  lively  accompaniment  a  little  song: 

"  When  you  see  de  big  round  moon 
Comin'  up  like  a  balloon, 
Dis  nigger  skips  fur  to  kiss  de  lips 
Ob  his  stylish,  black-faced  coon." 

The  singer  caught  sight  of  Armstrong. 

"Hi!  there,  Johnny,"  she  called;  "I've  been  expecting 
you  for  an  hour.  What  kept  you  ?  Gee !  but  these 
smoked  guys  are  the  slowest  you  ever  saw.  They  ain't 
on,  at  all.  Come  along  in,  and  I'll  make  this  coffee- 
coloured  old  sport  with  the  gold  epaulettes  open  one  for 
you  right  off  the  ice." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Armstrong;  "not  just  now,  I 
believe.  I've  several  things  to  attend  to." 

He  walked  out  and  down  the  street,  and  met  Rucker 
coming  up  from  the  Consulate. 

"Play  you  a  game  of  billiards,"  said  Armstrong.  "I 
want  something  to  take  the  taste  of  the  sea  level  out  of 
my  mouth." 


VI 

"GIRL" 

IN  GILT  letters  on  the  ground  glass  of  the  door  of 
room  No.  962  were  the  words:  "Robbins  &  Hartley, 
Brokers."  The  clerks  had  gone.  It  was  past  five,  and 
with  the  solid  tramp  of  a  drove  of  prize  Percherons,  scrub 
women  were  invading  the  cloud-capped  twenty-story 
office  building.  A  puff  of  red-hot  air  flavoured  with 
lemon  peelings,  soft-coal  smoke  and  train  oil  came  in 
through  the  half-open  windows. 

Robbins,  fifty,  something  of  an  overweight  beau,  and 
addicted  to  first  nights  and  hotel  palm-rooms,  pretended 
to  be  envious  of  his  partner's  commuter's  joys. 

"Going  to  be  something  doing  in  the  humidity  line 
to-night,"  he  said.  "You  out-of-town  chaps  will  be  the 
people,  with  your  katydids  and  moonlight  and  long  drinks 
and  things  out  on  the  front  porch." 

Hartley,  twenty-nine,  serious,  thin,  good-looking,  ner 
vous,  sighed  and  frowned  a  little. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "we  always  have  cool  nights  in  Floral- 
hurst,  especially  in  the  winter." 

A  man  with  an  air  of  mystery  came  in  the  door  and 
went  up  to  Hartley. 

"I've  found  where  she  lives,"  he  announced  in  the 

81 


82  Whirligigs 

portentous  half-whisper  that  makes  the  detective  at 
work  a  marked  being  to  his  fellow  men. 

Hartley  scowled  him  into  a  state  of  dramatic  silence 
and  quietude.  But  by  that  time  Robbins  had  got  his 
cane  and  set  his  tie  pin  to  his  liking,  and  with  a  debonair 
nod  went  out  to  his  metropolitan  amusements. 

"Here  is  the  address,"  said  the  detective  in  a  natural 
tone,  being  deprived  of  an  audience  to  foil. 

Hartley  took  the  leaf  torn  out  of  the  sleuth's  dingy 
memorandum  book.  On  it  were  pencilled  the  words 
"Vivienne  Arlington,  No.  341  East  — th  Street,  care  of 
Mrs.  McComus." 

"Moved  there  a  week  ago,"  said  the  detective.  "Now, 
if  you  want  any  shadowing  done,  Mr.  Hartley,  I  can  do 
you  as  fine  a  job  in  that  line  as  anybody  in  the  city.  It 
will  be  only  $7  a  day  and  expenses.  Can  send  in  a  daily 
typewritten  report,  covering  — 

"You  needn't  go  on,"  interrupted  the  broker.  "It 
isn't  a  case  of  that  kind.  I  merely  wanted  the  address. 
How  much  shall  I  pay  you?" 

"One  day's  work,"  said  the  sleuth.  "A  tenner  will 
cover  it." 

Hartley  paid  the  man  and  dismissed  him.  Then  he 
left  the  office  and  boarded  a  Broadway  car.  At  the  first 
large  crosstown  artery  of  travel  he  took  an  eastbound  car 
that  deposited  him  in  a  decaying  avenue,  whose  ancient 
structures  once  sheltered  the  pride  and  glory  of  the  town. 

Walking  a  few  squares,  he  came  to  the  building  that  he 
sought.  It  was  a  new  flathouse,  bearing  carved  upon  its 


"Girl"  83 

cheap  stone  portal  its  sonorous  name,  "The  Vallambrosa." 
Fire-escapes  zigzagged  down  its  front  —  these  laden 
with  household  goods,  drying  clothes,  and  squalling 
children  evicted  by  the  midsummer  heat.  Here  and 
there  a  pale  rubber  plant  peeped  from  the  miscellaneous 
mass,  as  if  wondering  to  what  kingdom  it  belonged  — 
vegetable,  animal  or  artificial. 

Hartley  pressed  the  "McComus"  button.  The  door 
latch  clicked  spasmodically  —  now  hospitably,  now  doubt 
fully,  as  though  in  anxiety  whether  it  might  be  admitting 
friends  or  duns.  Hartley  entered  and  began  to  climb  the 
stairs  after  the  manner  of  those  who  seek  their  friends  in 
city  flat-houses  —  which  is  the  manner  of  a  boy  who 
climbs  an  apple-tree,  stopping  when  he  comes  upon  what 
he  wants. 

On  the  fourth  floor  he  saw  Vivienne  standing  in  an 
open  door.  She  invited  him  inside,  with  a  nod  and  a 
bright,  genuine  smile.  She  placed  a  chair  for  him  near 
a  window,  and  poised  herself  gracefully  upon  the  edge 
of  one  of  those  Jekyll-and-Hyde  pieces  of  furniture  that 
are  masked  and  mysteriously  hooded,  unguessable  bulks 
by  day  and  inquisitorial  racks  of  torture  by  night. 

Hartley  cast  a  quick,  critical,  appreciative  glance  at 
her  before  speaking,  and  told  himself  that  his  taste  in 
choosing  had  been  flawless. 

Vivienne  was  about  twenty-one.  She  was  of  the  purest 
Saxon  type.  Her  hair  was  a  ruddy  golden,  each  filament 
of  the  neatly  gathered  mass  shining  with  its  own  lustre 
and  delicate  graduation  of  colour.  In  perfect  harmony 


84  Whirligigs 

were  her  ivory-clear  complexion  and  deep  sea-blue  eyes 
that  looked  upon  the  world  with  the  ingenuous  calmness 
of  a  mermaid  or  the  pixie  of  an  undiscovered  mountain 
stream.  Her  frame  was  strong  and  yet  possessed  the 
grace  of  absolute  naturalness.  And  yet  with  all  her  North 
ern  clearness  and  frankness  of  line  and  colouring,  there 
seemed  to  be  something  of  the  tropics  in  her  —  something 
of  languor  in  the  droop  of  her  pose,  of  love  of  ease  in  her 
ingenious  complacency  of  satisfaction  and  comfort  in 
the  mere  act  of  breathing  —  something  that  seemed  to 
claim  for  her  a  right  as  a  perfect  work  of  nature  to  exist 
and  be  admired  equally  with  a  rare  flower  or  some  beauti 
ful,  milk-white  dove  among  its  sober-hued  companions. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  white  waist  and  dark  skirt  —  that 
discreet  masquerade  of  goose-girl  and  duchess. 

"Vivienne,"  said  Hartley,  looking  at  her  pleadingly, 
"you  did  not  answer  my  last  letter.  It  was  only  by  nearly 
a  week's  search  that  I  found  where  you  had  moved  to. 
Why  have  you  kept  me  in  suspense  when  you  knew  how 
anxiously  I  was  waiting  to  see  you  and  hear  from  you  ?'" 

The  girl  looked  out  the  window  dreamily. 

"Mr.  Hartley,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "I  hardly  know 
what  to  say  to  you.  I  realize  all  the  advantages  of  your 
offer,  and  sometimes  I  feel  sure  that  I  could  be  contented 
with  you.  But,  again,  I  am  doubtful.  I  was  born  a 
city  girl,  and  I  am  afraid  to  bind  myself  to  a  quiet  sub 
urban  life." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  Hartley,  ardently,  "  have  I  not 
told  you  that  you  shall  have  everything  that  your  heart 


"Girl"  85 

can  desire  that  is  in  my  power  to  give  you  ?  You  shall 
come  to  the  city  for  the  theatres,  for  shopping  and  to  visit 
your  friends  as  often  as  you  care  to.  You  can  trust  me, 
can  you  not?" 

"To  the  fullest,"  she  said,  turning  her  frank  eyes  upon 
him  with  a  smile.  "  I  know  you  are  the  kindest  of  men, 
and  that  the  girl  you  get  will  be  a  lucky  one.  I  learned 
all  about  you  when  I  was  at  the  Montgomerys'." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Hartley,  with  a  tender,  reminiscent 
light  in  his  eye;  "  I  remember  well  the  evening  I  first  saw 
you  at  the  Montgomerys'.  Mrs.  Montgomery  was  sound 
ing  your  praises  to  me  all  the  evening.  And  she  hardly 
did  you  justice.  I  shall  never  forget  that  supper.  Come, 
Vivienne,  promise  me.  I  want  you.  You'll  never 
regret  coming  with  me.  No  one  else  will  ever  give  you 
as  pleasant  a  home." 

The  girl  sighed  and  looked  down  at  her  folded  hands. 

A  sudden  jealous  suspicion  seized  Hartley. 

"Tell  me,  Vivienne,"  he  asked,  regarding  her  keenly, 
"  is  there  another  —  is  there  some  one  else  ?  " 

A  rosy  flush  crept  slowly  over  her  fair  cheeks  and 
neck. 

"You  shouldn't  ask  that,  Mr.  Hartley,"  she  said,  in 
some  confusion.  "But  I  will  tell  you.  There  is  one 
other  —  but  he  has  no  right  —  I  have  promised  him 
nothing." 

"His  name?"  demanded  Hartley,  sternly. 

"Townsend." 

"  Rafford  Townsend ! "  exclaimed  Hartley,  with  a  grim 


86  Whirligigs 

tightening  of  his  jaw.  "  How  did  that  man  come  to  know 
you  ?  After  all  I've  done  for  him  — 

"His  auto  has  just  stopped  below,"  said  Vivienne, 
bending  over  the  window-sill.  "He's  coming  for  his 
answer.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do!" 

The  bell  in  the  flat  kitchen  whirred.  Vivienne  hurried 
to  press  the  latch  button. 

"Stay  here,"  said  Hartley.  "I  will  meet  him  in  the 
hall." 

Townsend,  looking  like  a  Spanish  grandee  in  his  light 
tweeds,  Panama  hat  and  curling  black  mustache,  came 
up  the  stairs  three  at  a  time.  He  stopped  at  sight  of 
Hartley  and  looked  foolish. 

"  Go  back,"  said  Hartley,  firmly,  pointing  downstairs 
with  his  forefinger. 

"Hullo!"  said  Townsend,  feigning  surprise.  "What's 
up  ?  What  are  you  doing  here,  old  man  ? " 

"  Go  back,"  repeated  Hartley,  inflexibly.  "  The  Law 
of  the  Jungle.  Do  you  want  the  Pack  to  tear  you  in 
pieces  ?  The  kill  is  mine." 

"I  came  here  to  see  a  plumber  about  the  bathroom 
connections,"  said  Townsend,  bravely. 

"All  right,"  said  Hartley.  "You  shall  have  that  lying 
plaster  to  stick  upon  your  traitorous  soul.  But,  go  back." 

Townsend  went  downstairs,  leaving  a  bitter  word  to 
be  wafted  up  the  draught  of  the  staircase.  Hartley  went 
back  to  his  wooing. 

"Vivienne,"  said  he,  masterfully.  "I  have  got  to 
have  you.  I  will  take  no  more  refusals  or  dilly-dallying." 


"Girl"  87 

"When  do  you  want  me?"  she  asked. 

"Now.     As  soon  as  you  can  get  ready." 

She  stood  calmly  before  him  and  looked  him  in  the 
eye. 

"Do  you  think  for  one  moment,"  she  said,  "that 
I  would  enter  your  home  while  Heloise  is  there?" 

Hartley  cringed  as  if  from  an  unexpected  blow.  He 
folded  his  arms  and  paced  the  carpet  once  or  twice. 

"She  shall  go,"  he  declared  grimly.  Drops  stood  upon 
his  brow.  "Why  should  I  let  that  woman  make  my 
life  miserable?  Never  have  I  seen  one  day  of  freedom 
from  trouble  since  I  have  known  her.  You  are  right, 
Vivienne.  Heloise  must  be  sent  away  before  I  can  take 
you  home.  But  she  shall  go.  I  have  decided.  I  will 
turn  her  from  my  doors." 

"W7hen  will  you  do  this?"  asked  the  girl. 

Hartley  clinched  his  teeth  and  bent  his  brows  together. 

"To-night,"  he  said,  resolutely.  "I  will  send  her 
away  to-night." 

"Then,"  said  Vivienne,  "my  answer  is  'yes.'  Come 
for  me  when  you  will." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  with  a  sweet,  sincere  light  in 
her  own.  Hartley  could  scarcely  believe  that  her  sur 
render  was  true,  it  was  so  swift  and  complete. 

"Promise  me,"  he  said  feelingly,  "on  your  word  and 
honour." 

"On  my  word  and  honour,"  repeated  Vivienne,  softly. 

At  the  door  he  turned  and  gazed  at  her  happily,  but 
yet  as  one  who  scarcely  trusts  the  foundations  of  his  joy. 


88  Whirligigs 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  with  a  forefinger  of  reminder 
uplifted. 

"To-morrow,"  she  repeated  with  a  smile  of  truth  and 
candour. 

In  an  hour  and  forty  minutes  Hartley  stepped  off  the 
train  at  Floralhurst.  A  brisk  walk  of  ten  minutes  brought 
him  to  the  gate  of  a  handsome  two-story  cottage  set  upon 
a  wide  and  well-tended  lawn.  Halfway  to  the  house  he 
was  met  by  a  woman  with  jet-black  braided  hair  and 
flowing  white  summer  gown,  who  half  strangled  him 
without  apparent  cause. 

When  they  stepped  into  the  hall  she  said : 

"Mamma's  here.  The  auto  is  coming  for  her  in  half 
an  hour.  She  came  to  dinner,  but  there's  no  dinner." 

"I've  something  to  tell  you,"  said  Hartley.  "I  thought 
to  break  it  to  you  gently,  but  since  your  mother  is  here 
we  may  as  well  out  with  it." 

He  stooped  and  whispered  something  at  her  ear. 

His  wife  screamed.  Her  mother  came  running  into 
the  hall.  The  dark-haired  woman  screamed  again — 
the  joyful  scream  of  a  well-beloved  and  petted  woman. 

"Oh,  mamma!"  she  cried  ecstatically,  "what  do  you 
think?  Vivienne  is  coming  to  cook  for  us!  She  is  the 
one  that  stayed  with  the  Montgomerys  a  whole  year. 
And  now,  Billy,  dear,"  she  concluded,  "you  must  go 
right  down  into  the  kitchen  and  discharge  Heloise.  She 
has  been  drunk  again  the  whole  day  long." 


vn 

SOCIOLOGY  IN  SERGE  AND  STRAW 

IHE  season  of  irresponsibility  is  at  hand.  Come, 
let  us  twine  round  our  brows  wreaths  of  poison  ivy  (that 
is  for  idiocy),  and  wander  hand  in  hand  with  sociology 
in  the  summer  fields. 

Likely  as  not  the  world  is  flat.  The  wise  men  have 
tried  to  prove  that  it  is  round,  with  indifferent  success. 
They  pointed  out  to  us  a  ship  going  to  sea,  and  bade  us 
observe  that,  at  length,  the  convexity  of  the  earth  hid 
from^  our  view  all  but  the  vessel's  topmast.  But  we 
picked  up  a  telescope  and  looked,  and  saw  the  decks 
and  hull  again.  Then  the  wise  men  said:  "Oh,  pshaw! 
anyhow,  the  variation  of  the  intersection  of  the  equator 
and  the  ecliptic  proves  it."  We  could  not  see  this  through 
our  telescope,  so  we  remained  silent.  But  it  stands  to 
reason  that,  if  the  world  were  round,  the  queues  of  China 
men  would  stand  straight  up  from  their  heads  instead 
of  hanging  down  their  backs,  as  travellers  assure  us  they  do. 

Another  hot-weather  corroboration  of  the  flat  theory 
is  the  fact  that  all  of  life,  as  we  know  it,  moves  in  little, 
unavailing  circles.  More  justly  than  to  anything  else, 
it  can  be  likened  to  the  game  of  baseball.  Crack!  we 
hit  the  ball,  and  away  we  go.  If  we  earn  a  run  (in  life 

89 


90  Whirligigs 

we  call  it  success)  we  get  back  to  the  home  plate  and  sit 
upon  a  bench.  If  we  are  thrown  out,  we  walk  back  to  the 
home  plate  —  and  sit  upon  a  bench. 

The  circumnavigators  of  the  alleged  globe  may 
have  sailed  the  rim  of  a  watery  circle  back  to  the  same 
port  again.  The  truly  great  return  at  the  high  tide  of 
their  attainments  to  the  simplicity  of  a  child.  The 
billionaire  sits  down  at  his  mahogany  to  his  bowl  of  bread 
and  milk.  When  you  reach  the  end  of  your  career,  just 
take  down  the  sign  "  Goal "  and  look  at  the  other  side  of 
it.  You  will  find  "  Beginning  Point "  there.  It  has  been 
reversed  while  you  were  going  around  the  track. 

But  this  is  humour,  and  must  be  stopped.  Let  us 
get  back  to  the  serious  questions  that  arise  whenever 
sociology  turns  summer  boarder.  You  are  invited  to 
consider  the  scene  of  the  story  —  wild,  Atlantic  waves, 
thundering  against  a  wooded  and  rock-bound  shore  — 
in  the  Greater  City  of  New  York. 

The  town  of  Fishampton,  on  the  south  shore  of  Long 
Island,  is  noted  for  its  clam  fritters  and  the  summer 
residence  of  the  Van  Plushvelts. 

The  Van  Plushvelts  have  a  hundred  million  dollars, 
and  their  name  is  a  household  word  with  tradesmen  and 
photographers. 

On  the  fifteenth  of  June  the  Van  Plushvelts  boarded 
up  the  front  door  of  their  city  house,  carefully  deposited 
their  cat  on  the  sidewalk,  instructed  the  caretaker  not 
to  allow  it  to  eat  any  of  the  ivy  on  the  walls,  and  whizzed 
away  in  a  40-horse-power  to  Fishampton  to  stray  alone 


Sociology  in  Serge  and  Straw  91 

in  the  shade  —  Amaryllis  not  being  in  their  class.  If 
you  are  a  subscriber  to  the  Toadies'  Magazine,  you  have 
often  —  You  say  you  are  not  ?  Well,  you  buy  it  at  a 
news-stand,  thinking  that  the  newsdealer  is  not  wise  to 
you.  But  he  knows  about  it  all.  HE  knows  — HE 
knows!  I  say  that  you  have  often  seen  in  the  Toadies' 
Magazine  pictures  of  the  Van  Plushvelts'  summer  home; 
so  it  will  not  be  described  here.  Our  business  is  with 
young  Haywood  Van  Plushvelt,  sixteen  years  old,  heir 
to  the  century  of  millions,  darling  of  the  financial  gods 
and  great  grandson  of  Peter  Van  Plushvelt,  former  owner 
of  a  particularly  fine  cabbage  patch  that  has  been  ruined 
by  an  intrusive  lot  of  downtown  skyscrapers. 

One  afternoon  young  Haywood  Van  Plushvelt  strolled 
out  between  the  granite  gate  posts  of  "  Dolce  far  Niente  " 
—  that's  what  they  called  the  place;  and  it  was  an  improve 
ment  on  dolce  Far  Rockaway,  I  can  tell  you. 

Haywood  walked  dowTn  into  the  village.  He  was 
human,  after  all,  and  his  prospective  millions  weighed 
upon  him.  Wealth  had  wreaked  upon  him  its  direfullest. 
He  was  the  product  of  private  tutors.  Even  under  his 
first  hobby-horse  had  tan  bark  been  strewn.  He  had 
been  born  with  a  gold  spoon,  lobster  fork  and  fish-set  in 
his  mouth.  For  which  I  hope,  later,  to  submit  justification, 
I  must  ask  your  consideration  of  his  haberdashery  and 
tailoring. 

Young  Fortunatus  was  dressed  in  a  neat  suit  of  dark 
blue  serge,  a  neat,  white  straw  hat,  neat  low-cut  tan  shoes, 
linen  of  the  well-known  "immaculate"  trade  mark,  a 


92  Whirligigs 

neat,  narrow  four-in-hand  tie,  and  carried  a  slender, 
neat,  bamboo  cane. 

Down  Persimmon  Street  (there's  never  tree  north  of 
Hagerstown,  Md.)  came  from  the  village  "Smoky" 
Dodson,  fifteen  and  a  half,  worst  boy  in  Fishampton. 
"Smoky"  was  dressed  in  a  ragged  red  sweater,  wrecked 
and  weather-worn  golf  cap,  run-over  shoes,  and  trousers 
of  the  "serviceable"  brand.  Dust,  clinging  to  the  mois 
ture  induced  by  free  exercise,  darkened  wide  areas  of 
his  face.  "  Smoky  "  carried  a  baseball  bat,  and  a  league 
ball  that  advertised  itself  in  the  rotundity  of  his  trousers 
pocket.  Haywood  stopped  and  passed  the  time  of  day. 

"  Going  to  play  ball  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Smoky's"  eyes  and  countenance  confronted  him 
with  a  frank  blue-and-freckled  scrutiny. 

"Me?"  he  said,  with  deadly  mildness;  "sure  not. 
Can't  you  see  I've  got  a  divin'  suit  on  ?  I'm  goin'  up  in 
a  submarine  balloon  to  catch  butterflies  with  a  two-inch 
auger." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Haywood,  with  the  insulting  polite 
ness  of  his  caste,  "  for  mistaking  you  for  a  gentleman.  I 
might  have  known  better." 

"How  might  you  have  known  better  if  you  thought  I 
was  one?"  said  "Smoky,"  unconsciously  a  logician. 

"By  your  appearance,"  said  Haywood.  "No  gentle 
man  is  dirty,  ragged  and  a  liar." 

"Smoky"  hooted  once  like  a  ferry-boat,  spat  on  his 
hand,  got  a  firm  grip  on  his  baseball  ba.t  an^  th^n  dropped 
it  against  the  fence- 


Sociology  in  Serge  and  Straw  93 

"Say,"  said  he,  "I  knows  you.  You're  the  pup  that 
belongs  in  that  swell  private  summer  sanitarium  for  city 
guys  over  there.  I  seen  you  come  out  of  the  gate.  You 
can't  bluff  nobody  because  you're  rich.  And  because 
you  got  on  swell  clothes.  Arabella!  Yah!" 

"Ragamuffin!"  said  Hay  wood. 

"Smoky"  picked  up  a  fence-rail  splinter  and  laid  it  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Dare  you  to  knock  it  off,"  he  challenged. 

"I  wouldn't  soil  my  hands  with  you,"  said  the  aristocrat. 

'  'Fraid,"  said  "Smoky"  concisely.  "Youse  city 
ducks  ain't  got  the  sand.  I  kin  lick  you  with  one 
hand." 

"I  don't  wish  to  have  any  trouble  with  you,"  said 
Haywood.  "I  asked  you  a  civil  question;  and  you  replied 
like  a  —  like  a  —  a  cad." 

"Wot's  a  cad?"  asked  "Smoky." 

"A  cad  is  a  disagreeable  person,"  answered  Haywood, 
"who  lacks  manners  and  doesn't  know  his  place.  They 
sometimes  play  baseball." 

"I  can  tell  you  what  a  mollycoddle  is,"  said  "Smoky." 
"It's  a  monkey  dressed  up  by  its  mother  and  sent  out  to 
pick  daisies  on  the  lawn." 

"When  you  have  the  honour  to  refer  to  the  members 
of  my  family,"  said  Haywood,  with  some  dim  ideas 
of  a  code  in  his  mind,  "you'd  better  leave  the  ladies  out 
of  your  remarks." 

"Ho!  ladies!"  mocked  the  rude  one.  "I  say  ladies! 
I  know  what  them  rich  women  in  the  city  does.  They 


94  Whirligigs 

drink  cocktails  and  swear  and  give  parties  to  gorillas. 
The  papers  says  so." 

Then  Haywood  knew  that  it  must  be.  He  took  off 
his  coat,  folded  it  neatly  and  laid  it  on  the  roadside  grass, 
placed  his  hat  upon  it  and  began  to  unknot  his  blue  silk 
tie. 

"Hadn't  yer  better  ring  fer  yer  maid,  Arabella?" 
taunted  "Smoky."  "Wot  yer  going  to  do  —  go  to  bed  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  give  you  a  good  trouncing,"  said  the 
hero.  He  did  not  hesitate,  although  the  enemy  was  far 
beneath  him  socially.  He  remembered  that  his  father 
once  thrashed  a  cabman,  and  the  papers  gave  it  two  col 
umns,  first  page.  And  the  Toadies'  Magazine  had  a 
special  article  on  Upper  Cuts  by  the  Upper  Classes,  and 
ran  new  pictures  of  the  Van  Plushvelt  country  seat,  at 
Fishampton. 

"Wot's  trouncing?"  asked  "Smoky,"  suspiciously. 
"I  don't  want  your  old  clothes.  I'm  no  —  oh,  you  mean 
to  scrap!  My,  my!  I  won't  do  a  thing  to  mamma's  pet. 
Criminy!  I'd  hate  to  be  a  hand-laundered  thing  like 
you."  * 

"Smoky"  waited  with  some  awkwardness  for  his 
adversary  to  prepare  for  battle.  His  own  decks  were 
always  clear  for  action.  When  he  should  spit  upon  the 
palm  of  his  terrible  right  it  was  equivalent  to  "You  may 
fire  now,  Gridley." 

The  hated  patrician  advanced,  with  his  shirt  sleeves 
neatly  rolled  up.  "Smoky"  waited,  in  an  attitude  of 
ease,  expecting  the  affair  to  be  conducted  according  to 


Sociology  in  Serge  and  Straw  95 

Fishampton's  rules  of  war.  These  allowed  combat 
to  be  prefaced  by  stigma,  recrimination,  epithet,  abuse 
and  insult  gradually  increasing  in  emphasis  and  degree. 
After  a  round  of  these  "you're  anothers"  would  come  the 
chip  knocked  from  the  shoulder,  or  the  advance  across 
the  "dare"  line  drawn  with  a  toe  on  the  ground.  Next 
light  taps  given  and  taken,  these  also  increasing  in  force 
until  finally  the  blood  was  up  and  fists  going  at  their  best. 

But  Haywood  did  not  know  Fishampton's  rules. 
Noblesse  oblige  kept  a  faint  smile  on  his  face  as  he  walked 
slowly  up  to  "Smoky"  and  said: 

"Going  to  play  ball?" 

"Smoky"  quickly  understood  this  to  be  a  putting 
of  the  previous  question,  giving  him  the  chance  to  make 
a  practical  apology  by  answering  it  with  civility  and 
relevance. 

"Listen  this  time,"  said  he.  "I'm  goin'  skatin'  on 
the  river.  Don't  you  see  me  automobile  with  Chinese 
lanterns  on  it  standin'  and  waitin'  for  me?" 

Haywood  knocked  him  down. 

"Smoky"  felt  wronged.  To  thus  deprive  him  of 
preliminary  wrangle  and  objurgation  was  to  send  an 
armoured  knight  full  tilt  against  a  crashing  lance  without 
permitting  him  first  to  caracole  around  the  list  to  the 
flourish  of  trumpets.  But  he  scrambled  up  and  fell  upon 
his  foe,  head,  feet  and  fists. 

The  fight  lasted  one  round  of  an  hour  and  ten  minutes. 
It  was  lengthened  until  it  was  more  like  a  war  or  a  family 
feud  than  a  fight.  Haywood  had  learned  some  of  the 


96  Whirligigs 

science  of  boxing  and  wrestling  from  his  tutors,  but  these 
he  discarded  for  the  more  instinctive  methods  of  battle 
handed  down  by  the  cave-dwelling  Van  Plushvelts. 

So,  when  he  found  himself,  during  the  melee,  seated 
upon  the  kicking  and  roaring  "Smoky's"  chest,  he 
improved  the  opportunity  by  vigorously  kneading  hand- 
fuls  of  sand  and  soil  into  his  adversary's  ears,  eyes  and 
mouth,  and  when  "Smoky"  got  the  proper  leg  hold  and 
"turned"  him,  he  fastened  both  hands  in  the  Plushvelt 
hair  and  pounded  the  Plushvelt  head  against  the  lap  of 
mother  earth.  Of  course,  the  strife  was  not  incessantly 
active.  There  were  seasons  when  one  sat  upon  the  other, 
holding  him  down,  while  each  blew  like  a  grampus,  spat 
out  the  more  inconveniently  large  sections  of  gravel  and 
earth,  and  strove  to  subdue  the  spirit  of  his  opponent 
with  a  frightful  and  soul-paralyzing  glare. 

At  last,  it  seemed  that  in  the  language  of  the  ring,  their 
efforts  lacked  steam.  They  broke  away,  and  each 
disappeared  in  a  cloud  as  he  brushed  away  the  dust  of 
the  conflict.  As  soon  as  his  breath  permitted,  Hay  wood 
walked  close  to  "Smoky"  and  said: 

"Going  to  play  ball?" 

"Smoky"  looked  pensively  at  the  sky,  at  his  bat  lying 
on  the  ground,  and  at  the  "leaguer"  rounding  his  pocket. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  off-handedly.  "The  ' Yellowjackets' 
plays  the  'Long  Islands.'  I'm  cap'n  of  the  'Long 
Islands.'  " 

''  I  guess  I  didn't  mean  to  say  you  were  ragged,"  said 
Haywood.  "But  you  are  dirty,  you  know." 


Sociology  in  Serge  and  Straw  97 

"Sure,"  said  "Smoky."  "Yer  get  that  way  knockin' 
around.  Say,  I  don't  believe  them  New  York  papers 
about  ladies  drinkin'  and  havin'  monkeys  dinin'  at  the 
table  with  'em.  I  guess  they're  lies,  like  they  print 
about  people  eatin'  out  of  silver  plates,  and  ownin'  dogs 
that  cost  $100." 

"Certainly,"  said  Haywood.  "What  do  you  play  on 
your  team?" 

"Ketcher.     Ever  play  any?" 

"Never  in  my  life,"  said  Haywood.  "I've  never  known 
any  fellows  except  one  or  two  of  my  cousins." 

"Jer  like  to  learn?  We're  goin'  to  have  a  practice 
game  before  the  match.  Wanter  come  along?  I'll  put 
yer  in  left-field,  and  yer  won't  be  long  ketchin'  on." 

"I'd  like  it  bully,"  said  Haywood.  "I've  always 
wanted  to  play  baseball." 

The  ladies'  maids  of  New  York  and  the  families  of 
Western  mine  owners  with  social  ambitions  will  remember 
well  the  sensation  that  was  created  by  the  report  that  the 
young  multi-millionaire,  Haywood  Van  Plushvelt,  was 
playing  ball  with  the  village  youths  of  Fishampton.  It 
was  conceded  that  the  millennium  of  democracy  had 
come.  Reporters  and  photographers  swarmed  to  the 
island.  The  papers  printed  half-page  pictures  of  him 
as  short-stop  stopping  a  hot  grounder.  The  Toadies' 
Magazine  got  out  a  Bat  and  Ball  number  that  covered 
the  subject  historically,  beginning  with  the  vampire  bat 
and  ending  with  the  Patriarchs'  ball  —  illustrated  with 
interior  views  of  the  Van  Plushvelt  country  seat. 


98  Whirligigs 

Ministers,  educators  and  sociologists  everywhere  hailed 
the  event  as  the  tocsin  call  that  proclaimed  the  universal 
brotherhood  of  man. 

One  afternoon  I  was  reclining  under  the  trees  near 
the  shore  at  Fishampton  in  the  esteemed  company  of 
an  eminent,  bald-headed  young  sociologist.  By  way 
of  note  it  may  be  inserted  that  all  sociologists  are  more 
or  less  bald,  and  exactly  thirty- two.  Look  'em  over. 

The  sociologist  was  citing  the  Van  Plushvelt  case  as 
the  most  important  "uplift"  symptom  of  a  generation, 
and  as  an  excuse  for  his  own  existence. 

Immediately  before  us  were  the  village  baseball  grounds. 
And  now  came  the  sportive  youth  of  Fishampton  and 
distributed  themselves,  shouting,  about  the  diamond. 

"There,"  said  the  sociologist,  pointing,  "there  is  young 
Van  Plushvelt." 

I  raised  myself  (so  far  a  cosycophant  with  Mary  Ann) 
and  gazed. 

Young  Van  Plushvelt  sat  upon  the  ground.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  ragged  red  sweater,  wrecked  and  weather 
worn  golf  cap,  run-over  shoes,  and  trousers  of  the  "ser 
viceable"  brand.  Dust  clinging  to  the  moisture  induced  by 
free  exercise,  darkened  wide  areas  of  his  face. 

"That  is  he,"  repeated  the  sociologist.  If  he  had  said 
"him"  I  could  have  been  less  vindictive. 

On  a  bench,  with  an  air,  sat  the  young  millionaire's 
chum. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  neat  suit  of  dark  blue  serge,  a  neat 
white  straw  hat,  neat  low-cut  tan  shoes,  linen  of  the 


Sociology  in  Serge  and  Straw  99 

well-known  "immaculate"  trade  mark,  a  neat,  narrow 
four-in-hand  tie,  and  carried  a  slender,  neat  bamboo 
cane. 

I  laughed  loudly  and  vulgarly. 

"What  you  want  to  do,"  said  I  to  the  sociologist,  "is 
to  establish  a  reformatory  for  the  Logical  Vicious  Circle. 
Or  else  I've  got  wheels.  It  looks  to  me  as  if  things  are 
running  round  and  round  in  circles  instead  of  getting 
anywhere." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  man  of  progress. 

"Why,  look  what  he  has  done  to  "Smoky,"  I  replied. 

"You  will  always  be  a  fool,"  said  my  friend,  the  sociolo 
gist,  getting  up  and  walking  away. 


VIII 
THE  RANSOM  OF  RED  CHIEF 

IT  LOOKED  like  a  good  thing:  but  wait  till  I  tell  you. 
We  were  down  South, in  Alabama — Bill  Driscoll  and  myself 
— when  this  kidnapping  idea  struck  us.  It  was,  as  Bill 
afterward  expressed  it,  "during  a  moment  of  temporary 
mental  apparition";  but  we  didn't  find  that  out  till  later. 

There  was  a  town  down  there,  as  flat  as  a  flannel-cake, 
and  called  Summit,  of  course.  It  contained  inhabitants 
of  as  undeleterious  and  self-satisfied  a  class  of  peasantry 
as  ever  clustered  around  a  Maypole. 

Bill  and  me  had  a  joint  capital  of  about  six  hundred 
dollars,  and  we  needed  just  two  thousand  dollars  more 
to  pull  off  a  fraudulent  town-lot  scheme  in  Western 
Illinois  with.  We  talked  it  over  on  the  front  steps  of  the 
hotel.  Philoprogenitiveness,  says  we,  is  strong  in  semi- 
rural  communities;  therefore,  and  for  other  reasons,  a 
kidnapping  project  ought  to  do  better  there  than  in  the 
radius  of  newspapers  that  send  reporters  out  in  plain 
clothes  to  stir  up  talk  about  such  things.  We  knew  that 
Summit  couldn't  get  after  us  with  anything  stronger 
than  constables  and,  maybe,  some  lackadaisical  blood 
hounds  and  a  diatribe  or  two  in  the  Weekly  Farmers' 
Budget.  So,  it  looked  good. 

100 


The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief  101 

We  selected  for  our  victim  the  only  child  of  a  prominent 
citizen  named  Ebenezer  Dorset.  The  father  was  respect 
able  and  tight,  a  mortgage  fancier  and  a  stern,  upright 
collection-plate  passer  and  forecloser.  The  kid  was  a 
boy  of  ten,  with  bas-relief  freckles,  and  hair  the  colour  of 
the  cover  of  the  magazine  you  buy  at  the  news-stand 
when  you  want  to  catch  a  train.  Bill  and  me  figured 
that  Ebenezer  would  melt  down  for  a  ransom  of  two 
thousand  dollars  to  a  cent.  But  wait  till  I  tell  you. 

About  two  miles  from  Summit  was  a  little  mountain, 
covered  with  a  dense  cedar  brake.  On  the  rear  elevation 
of  this  mountain  was  a  cave.  There  we  stored  provisions. 

One  evening  after  sundown,  we  drove  in  a  buggy  past 
old  Dorset's  house.  The  kid  was  in  the  street,  throw 
ing  rocks  at  a  kitten  on  the  opposite  fence. 

"Hey,  little  boy!"  says  Bill,  "would  you  like  to  have 
a  bag  of  candy  and  a  nice  ride  ?" 

The  boy  catches  Bill  neatly  in  the  eye  with  a  piece  of 
brick. 

"That  will  cost  the  old  man  an  extra  five  hundred 
dollars,"  says  Bill,  climbing  over  the  wheel. 

That  boy  put  up  a  fight  like  a  welter-weight  cinnamon 
bear;  but,  at  last,  we  got  him  down  in  the  bottom  of  the 
buggy  and  drove  away.  We  took  him  up  to  the  cave,  and 
I  hitched  the  horse  in  the  cedar  brake.  After  dark  I 
drove  the  buggy  to  the  little  village,  three  miles  away, 
where  we  had  hired  it,  and  walked  back  to  the  moun 
tain. 

Bill  was  pasting  court-plaster  over  the  scratches  and 


102  Whirligigs 

bruises  on  his  features.  There  was  a  fire  burning  behind 
the  big  rock  at  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  and  the  boy  was 
watching  a  pot  of  boiling  coffee,  with  two  buzzard  tail- 
feathers  stuck  in  his  red  hair.  He  points  a  stick  at  me 
when  I  come  up,  and  says: 

"Ha!  cursed  paleface,  do  you  dare  to  enter  the  camp  of 
Red  Chief,  the  terror  of  the  plains?" 

"He's  all  right  now,"  says  Bill,  rolling  up  his  trousers 
and  examining  some  bruises  on  his  shins.  "We're 
playing  Indian.  We're  making  Buffalo  Bill's  show  look 
like  magic-lantern  views  of  Palestine  in  the  town  hall. 
I'm  Old  Hank,  the  Trapper,  Red  Chief's  captive,  and  I'm 
to  be  scalped  at  daybreak.  By  Geronirno!  that  kid  can 
kick  hard." 

Yes,  sir,  that  boy  seemed  to  be  having  the  time  of  his 
life.  The  fun  of  camping  out  in  a  cave  had  made  him 
forget  that  he  was  a  captive  himself.  He  immediately 
christened  me  Snake-eye,  the  Spy,  and  announced  that, 
when  his  braves  returned  from  the  warpath,  I  was  to  be 
broiled  at  the  stake  at  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

Then  we  had  supper;  and  he  filled  his  mouth  full  of 
bacon  and  bread  and  gravy,  and  began  to  talk.  He  made 
a  during-dinner  speech  something  like  this: 

"I  like  this  fine.  I  never  camped  out  before;  but  I 
had  a  pet  'possum  once,  and  I  was  nine  last  birthday. 
I  hate  to  go  to  school.  Rats  ate  up  sixteen  of  Jimmy 
Talbot's  aunt's  speckled  hen's  eggs.  Are  there  any 
real  Indians  in  these  woods  ?  I  want  some  more  gravy. 
Does  the  trees  moving  make  the  wind  blow  ?  We  had 


The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief  103 

five  puppies.  What  makes  your  nose  so  red,  Hank? 
My  father  has  lots  of  money.  Are  the  stars  hot?  I 
whipped  Ed  Walker  twice,  Saturday.  I  don't  like  girls. 
You  dassent  catch  toads  unless  with  a  string.  Do  oxen 
make  any  noise  ?  Why  are  oranges  round  ?  Have  you 
got  beds  to  sleep  on  in  this  cave  ?  Amos  Murray  has  got 
six  toes.  A  parrot  can  talk,  but  a  monkey  or  a  fish  can't. 
How  many  does  it  take  to  make  t\velve  ?" 

Every  few  minutes  he  would  remember  that  he  was 
a  pesky  redskin,  and  pick  up  his  stick  rifle  and  tiptoe  to 
the  mouth  of  the  cave  to  rubber  for  the  scouts  of  the 
hated  paleface.  Now  and  then  he  would  let  out  a  war 
whoop  that  made  Old  Hank  the  Trapper,  shiver.  That 
boy  had  Bill  terrorized  from  the  start. 

"Red  Chief,"  says  I  to  the  kid,  "would  you  like  to  go 
home?" 

"Aw,  what  for?"  says  he.  "I  don't  have  any  fun  at 
home.  I  hate  to  go  to  school.  I  like  to  camp  out.  You 
won't  take  me  back  home  again,  Snake-eye,  will  you?" 

"Not  right  away,"  says  I.  "We'll  stay  here  in  the 
cave  a  while." 

"All  right!"  says  he.  "That'll  be  fine.  I  never  had 
such  fun  in  all  my  life." 

We  went  to  bed  about  eleven  o'clock.  We  spread  down 
some  wide  blankets  and  quilts  and  put  Red  Chief  between 
us.  We  weren't  afraid  he'd  run  away.  He  kept  us 
awake  for  three  hours,  jumping  up  and  reaching  for  his 
rifle  and  screeching:  "Hist!  pard,"  in  mine  and  Bill's 
ears,  as  the  fancied  crackle  of  a  twig  or  the  rustle  of  a 


104  Whirligigs 

leaf  revealed  to  his  young  imagination  the  stealthy 
approach  of  the  outlaw  band.  At  last,  I  fell  into  a 
troubled  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  I  had  been  kidnapped 
and  chained  to  a  tree  by  a  ferocious  pirate  with  red  hair. 

Just  at  daybreak,  I  was  awakened  by  a  series  of  awful 
screams  from  Bill.  They  weren't  yells,  or  howls,  or 
shouts,  or  whoops,  or  yawps,  such  as  you'd  expect  from 
a  manly  set  of  vocal  organs  —  they  were  simply  indecent, 
terrifying,  humiliating  screams,  such  as  women  emit 
when  they  see  ghosts  or  caterpillars.  It's  an  awful  thing 
to  hear  a  strong,  desperate,  fat  man  scream  incontinently 
in  a  cave  at  daybreak. 

I  jumped  up  to  see  what  the  matter  was.  Red  Chief 
was  sitting  on  Bill's  chest,  with  one  hand  twined  in  Bill's 
hair.  In  the  other  he  had  the  sharp  case-knife  we  used 
for  slicing  bacon;  and  he  was  industriously  and  realistically 
trying  to  take  Bill's  scalp,  according  to  the  sentence  that 
had  been  pronounced  upon  him  the  evening  before. 

I  got  the  knife  away  from  the  kid  and  made  him  lie 
down  again.  But,  from  that  moment,  Bill's  spirit  was 
broken.  He  laid  down  on  his  side  of  the  bed,  but  he  never 
closed  an  eye  again  in  sleep  as  long  as  that  boy  was  with  us. 
I  dozed  off  for  a  while,  but  along  toward  sun-up  I  remem 
bered  that  Red  Chief  had  said  I  was  to  be  burned  at  the 
stake  at  the  rising  of  the  sun.  I  wasn't  nervous  or  afraid ; 
but  I  sat  up  and  lit  my  pipe  and  leaned  against  a  rock. 

"  What  you  getting  up  so  soon  for,  Sam  ?  "  asked  Bill. 

"Me?"  says  I.  "Oh,  I  got  a  kind  of  a  pain  in 
my  shoulder.  I  thought  sitting  up  would  rest  it." 


The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief  105 

"You're  a  liar!"  says  Bill.  "You're  afraid.  You 
was  to  be  burned  at  sunrise,  and  you  was  afraid  he'd 
do  it.  And  he  would,  too,  if  he  could  find  a  match. 
Ain't  it  awful,  Sam  ?  Do  you  think  anybody  will  pay 
out  money  to  get  a  little  imp  like  that  back  home  ?  " 

"Sure,"  said  I.  "A  rowdy  kid  like  that  is  just  the  kind 
that  parents  dote  on.  Now,  you  and  the  Chief  get  up  and 
cook  breakfast,  while  I  go  up  on  the  top  of  this  mountain 
and  reconnoitre." 

I  went  up  on  the  peak  of  the  little  mountain  and  ran  my 
eye  over  the  contiguous  vicinity.  Over  toward  Summit  I 
expected  to  see  the  sturdy  yeomanry  of  the  village  armed 
with  scythes  and  pitchforks  beating  the  countryside  for 
the  dastardly  kidnappers.  But  what  I  saw  was  a  peaceful 
landscape  dotted  with  one  man  ploughing  with  a  dun 
mule.  Nobody  was  dragging  the  creek;  no  couriers 
dashed  hither  and  yon,  bringing  tidings  of  no  news  to  the 
distracted  parents.  There  was  a  sylvan  attitude  of 
somnolent  sleepiness  pervading  that  section  of  the  external 
outward  surface  of  Alabama  that  lay  exposed  to  my  view. 
"Perhaps,"  says  I  to  myself,  "it  has  not  yet  been  discov 
ered  that  the  wolves  have  borne  away  the  tender  lambkin 
from  the  fold.  Heaven  help  the  wolves!"  says  I,  and  I 
went  down  the  mountain  to  breakfast. 

When  I  got  to  the  cave  I  found  Bill  backed  up  against 
the  side  of  it,  breathing  hard,  and  the  boy  threatening 
to  smash  him  with  a  rock  half  as  big  as  a  cocoanut. 

"He  put  a  red-hot  boiled  potato  down  my  back," 
explained  Bill,  "and  then  mashed  it  with  his  foot;  and 


106  Whirligigs 

I  boxed  his  ears.  Have  you  got  a  gun  about  you, 
Sam?" 

I  took  the  rock  away  from  the  boy  and  kind  of  patched 
up  the  argument.  "I'll  fix  you,"  says  the  kid  to  Bill. 
"  No  man  ever  yet  struck  the  Red  Chief  but  what  he  got 
paid  for  it.  You  better  beware ! " 

After  breakfast  the  kid  takes  a  piece  of  leather  with 
strings  wrapped  around  it  out  of  his  pocket  and  goes  out 
side  the  cave  unwinding  it. 

"What's  he  up  to  now?"  says  Bill,  anxiously.  "You 
don't  think  he'll  run  away,  do  you,  Sam  ? " 

"  No  fear  of  it,"  says  I.  "  He  don't  seem  to  be  much  of 
a  home  body.  But  we've  got  to  fix  up  some  plan  about  the 
ransom.  There  don't  seem  to  be  much  excitement  around 
Summit  on  account  of  his  disappearance;  but  maybe 
they  haven't  realized  yet  that  he's  gone.  His  folks 
may  think  he's  spending  the  night  with  Aunt  Jane  or  one 
of  the  neighbours.  Anyhow,  he'll  be  missed  to-day. 
To-night  we  must  get  a  message  to  his  father  demanding 
the  two  thousand  dollars  for  his  return." 

Just  then  we  heard  a  kind  of  war-whoop,  such  as  David 
might  have  emitted  when  he  knocked  out  the  champion 
Goliath.  It  was  a  sling  that  Red  Chief  had  pulled  out 
of  his  pocket,  and  he  was  whirling  it  around  his  head. 

I  dodged,  and  heard  a  heavy  thud  and  a  kind  of  a  sigh 
from  Bill,  like  a  horse  gives  out  when  you  take  his  saddle 
off.  A  niggerhead  rock  the  size  of  an  egg  had  caught 
Bill  just  behind  his  left  ear.  He  loosened  himself  all  over 
and  fell  in  the  fire  across  the  frying  pan  of  hot  water  for 


The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief  107 

washing  the  dishes.  I  dragged  him  out  and  poured  cold 
water  on  his  head  for  half  an  hour. 

By  and  by,  Bill  sits  up  and  feels  behind  his  ear  and 
says:  "Sam,  do  you  know  who  my  favourite  Biblical 
character  is  ?  " 

"Take  it  easy,"  says  I.  "You'll  come  to  your  senses 
presently." 

"King  Herod,"  says  he.  "You  won't  go  away  and 
leave  me  here  alone,  will  you,  Sam  ?  " 

I  went  out  and  caught  that  boy  and  shook  him  until 
his  freckles  rattled. 

"If  you  don't  behave,"  says  I,  "I'll  take  you  straight 
home.  Now,  are  you  going  to  be  good,  or  not?" 

"I  was  only  funning,"  says  he  sullenly.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  Old  Hank.  But  what  did  he  hit  me  for  ? 
I'll  behave,  Snake-eye,  if  you  won't  send  me  home,  and 
if  you'll  let  me  play  the  Black  Scout  to-day." 

"  I  don't  know  the  game,"  says  I.  "  That's  for  you  and 
Mr.  Bill  to  decide.  He's  your  playmate  for  the  day. 
I'm  going  away  for  a  while,  on  business.  Now,  you 
come  in  and  make  friends  with  him  and  say  you  are 
sorry  for  hurting  him,  or  home  you  go,  at  once." 

I  made  him  and  Bill  shake  hands,  and  then  I  took  Bill 
aside  and  told  him  I  was  going  to  Poplar  Cove,  a  little 
village  three  miles  from  the  cave,  and  find  out  what  I 
could  about  how  the  kidnapping  had  been  regarded  in 
Summit.  Also,  I  thought  it  best  to  send  a  peremptory 
letter  to  old  man  Dorset  that  day,  demanding  the  ransom 
and  dictating  how  it  should  be  paid. 


108  Whirligigs 

"  You  know,  Sam,"  says  Bill,  "  I've  stood  by  you  with 
out  batting  an  eye  in  earthquakes,  fire  and  flood  —  in 
poker  games,  dynamite  outrages,  police  raids,  train 
robberies  and  cyclones.  I  never  lost  my  nerve  yet  till 
we  kidnapped  that  two-legged  skyrocket  of  a  kid.  He's 
got  me  going.  You  won't  leave  me  long  with  him,  will 
you,  Sam?" 

"I'll  be  back  some  time  this  afternoon,"  says  I.  "You 
must  keep  the  boy  amused  and  quiet  till  I  return.  And 
now  we'll  write  the  letter  to  old  Dorset." 

Bill  and  I  got  paper  and  pencil  and  worked  on  the 
letter  while  Red  Chief,  with  a  blanket  wrapped  around 
him,  strutted  up  and  down,  guarding  the  mouth  of  the 
cave.  Bill  begged  me  tearfully  to  make  the  ransom 
fifteen  hundred  dollars  instead  of  two  thousand.  "I 
ain't  attempting,"  says  he,  "to  decry  the  celebrated  moral 
aspect  of  parental  affection,  but  we're  dealing  with 
humans,  and  it  ain't  human  for  anybody  to  give  up  two 
thousand  dollars  for  that  forty-pound  chunk  of  freckled 
wildcat.  I'm  willing  to  take  a  chance  at  fifteen  hundred 
dollars.  You  can  charge  the  difference  up  to  me." 

So,  to  relieve  Bill,  I  acceded,  and  we  collaborated  a 
letter  that  ran  this  way: 

Ebenezer  Dorset,  Esq.: 

We  have  your  boy  concealed  in  a  place  far  from  Summit. 
It  is  useless  for  you  or  the  most  skilful  detectives  to 
attempt  to  find  him.  Absolutely,  the  only  terms  on 
which  you  can  have  him  restored  to  you  are  these:  We 
demand  fifteen  hundred  dollars  in  large  bills  for  his  return ; 


The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief  109 

the  money  to  be  left  at  midnight  to-night  at  the  same 
spot  and  in  the  same  box  as  your  reply  —  as  hereinafter 
described.  If  you  agree  to  these  terms,  send  your  answer 
in  writing  by  a  solitary  messenger  to-night  at  half-past 
eight  o'clock.  After  crossing  Owl  Creek,  on  the  road 
to  Poplar  Cove,  there  are  three  large  trees  about  a  hundred 
yards  apart,  close  to  the  fence  of  the  wheat  field  on  the 
right-hand  side.  At  the  bottom  of  the  fence-post,  opposite 
the  third  tree,  will  be  found  a  small  pasteboard  box. 

The  messenger  will  place  the  answer  in  this  box  and 
return  immediately  to  Summit. 

If  you  attempt  any  treachery  or  fail  to  comply  with 
our  demand  as  stated,  you  will  never  see  your  boy  again. 

If  you  pay  the  money  as  demanded,  he  will  be  returned 
to  you  safe  and  well  within  three  hours.  These  terms 
are  final,  and  if  you  do  not  accede  to  them  no  further  com 
munication  will  be  attempted. 

Two  DESPERATE  MEN. 


I  addressed  this  letter  to  Dorset,  and  put  it  in  my  pocket. 
As  I  was  about  to  start,  the  kid  comes  up  to  me  and  says: 

"  Aw,  Snake-eye,  you  said  I  could  play  the  Black  Scout 
while  you  was  gone." 

"Play  it,  of  course,"  says  I.  "Mr.  Bill  will  play 
with  you.  What  kind  of  a  game  is  it?" 

"I'm  the  Black  Scout,"  says  Red  Chief,  "and  I 
have  to  ride  to  the  stockade  to  warn  the  settlers  that  the 
Indians  are  coming.  I'm  tired  of  playing  Indian  myself. 
I  want  to  be  the  Black  Scout." 

"All  right,"  says  I.  "It  sounds  harmless  to  me. 
I  guess  Mr.  Bill  will  help  you  foil  the  pesky 
savages." 


110  Whirligigs 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  asks  Bill,  looking  at  the  kid 
suspiciously. 

"  You  are  the  hoss,"  says  Black  Scout.  "  Get  down 
on  your  hands  and  knees.  How  can  I  ride  to  the  stockada 
without  a  hoss  ?" 

"You'd  better  keep  him  interested,"  said  I,  "till  we 
get  the  scheme  going.  Loosen  up." 

Bill  gets  down  on  his  all  fours,  and  a  look  comes  in 
his  eye  like  a  rabbit's  when  you  catch  it  in  a  trap. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  stockade,  kid  ?  "  he  asks,  in  a  husky 
manner  of  voice. 

"  Ninety  miles,"  says  the  Black  Scout.  "  And  you  have 
to  hump  yourself  to  get  there  on  time.  Whoa,  now!" 

The  Black  Scout  jumps  on  Bill's  back  and  digs  his 
heels  in  his  side. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  says  Bill,  "hurry  back,  Sam, 
as  soon  as  you  can.  I  wish  we  hadn't  made  the  ransom 
more  than  a  thousand.  Say,  you  quit  kicking  me  or  I'll 
get  up  and  warm  you  good." 

I  walked  over  to  Poplar  Cove  and  sat  around  the  post- 
office  and  store,  talking  with  the  chawbacons  that  came 
in  to  trade.  One  whiskerando  says  that  he  hears  Summit 
is  all  upset  on  account  of  Elder  Ebenezer  Dorset's  boy 
having  been  lost  or  stolen.  That  was  all  I  wanted  to  know. 
I  bought  some  smoking  tobacco,  referred  casually  to  the 
price  of  black -eyed  peas,  posted  my  letter  surreptitiously 
and  came  away.  The  postmaster  said  the  mail-carrier 
would  come  by  in  an  hour  to  take  the  mail  on  to  Summit. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  cave  Bill  and  the  boy  were  not 


The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief  111 

to  be  found.  I  explored  the  vicinity  of  the  cave,  and  risked 
a  yodel  or  two,  but  there  was  no  response. 

So  I  lighted  my  pipe  and  sat  down  on  a  mossy  bank  to 
await  developments. 

In  about  half  an  hour  I  heard  the  bushes  rustle,  and 
Bill  wabbled  out  into  the  little  glade  in  front  of  the  cave. 
Behind  him  was  the  kid,  stepping  softly  like  a  scout,  with 
a  broad  grin  on  his  face.  Bill  stopped,  took  off  his  hat 
and  wiped  his  face  with  a  red  handkerchief.  The  kid 
stopped  about  eight  feet  behind  him. 

"  Sam,"  says  Bill,  "  I  suppose  you'll  think  I'm  a  rene 
gade,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  I'm  a  grown  person  with 
masculine  proclivities  and  habits  of  self-defense,  but  there 
is  a  time  when  all  systems  of  egotism  and  predominance 
fail.  The  boy  is  gone.  I  have  sent  him  home.  All 
is  off.  There  was  martyrs  in  old  times,"  goes  on  Bill, 
"that  suffered  death  rather  than  give  up  the  particular 
graft  they  enjoyed.  None  of  'em  ever  was  subjugated 
to  such  supernatural  tortures  as  I  have  been.  I  tried  to 
be  faithful  to  our  articles  of  depredation;  but  there  came 
a  limit." 

"What's  the  trouble,  Bill  ?"  I  asks  him. 

"  I  was  rode,"  says  Bill,  "the  ninety  miles  to  the  stockade, 
not  barring  an  inch.  Then,  when  the  settlers  was  rescued, 
I  was  given  oats.  Sand  ain't  a  palatable  substitute. 
And  then,  for  an  hour  I  had  to  try  to  explain  to  him 
why  there  was  nothin'  in  holes,  how  a  road  can  run  both 
ways  and  what  makes  the  grass  green.  I  tell  you,  Sam, 
A  human  can  only  stand  so  much.  I  takes  him  by  the 


Whirligigs 

neck  of  his  clothes  and  drags  him  down  the  mountain. 
On  the  way  he  kicks  my  legs  black-and-blue  from  the  knees 
down;  and  I've  got  to  have  two  or  three  bites  on  my  thumb 
and  hand  cauterized. 

"But  he's  gone" — continues  Bill  —  "gone  home. 
I  showed  him  the  road  to  Summit  and  kicked  him  about 
eight  feet  nearer  there  at  one  kick.  I'm  sorry  we  lose  the 
ransom;  but  it  was  either  that  or  Bill  Driscoll  to  the 
madhouse." 

Bill  is  puffing  and  blowing,  but  there  is  a  look  of  ineffable 
peace  and  growing  content  on  his  rose-pink  features. 

"Bill,"  says  I,  "there  isn't  any  heart  disease  in  your 
family,  is  there?" 

"No,"  says  Bill,  "nothing  chronic  except  malaria 
and  accidents.  Why?" 

"Then  you  might  turn  around,"  says  I,  "and  have  a 
look  behind  you." 

Bill  turns  and  sees  the  boy,  and  loses  his  complexion 
and  sits  down  plump  on  the  ground  and  begins  to  pluck 
aimlessly  at  grass  and  little  sticks.  For  an  hour  I  was 
afraid  for  his  mind.  And  then  I  told  him  that  my  scheme 
was  to  put  the  whole  job  through  immediately  and  that 
we  would  get  the  ransom  and  be  off  with  it  by  midnight 
if  old  Dorset  fell  in  with  our  proposition.  So  Bill  braced 
i*p  enough  to  give  the  kid  a  weak  sort  of  a  smile  and  a 
promise  to  play  the  Russian  in  a  Japanese  war  with  him 
as  soon  as  he  felt  a  little  better. 

I  had  a  scheme  for  collecting  that  ransom  without 
danger  of  being  caught  by  counterplots  that  ought  to 


The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief  113 

commend  itself  to  professional  kidnappers.  The  tree 
under  which  the  answer  was  to  be  left  —  and  the 
money  later  on  —  was  close  to  the  road  fence  with  big, 
bare  fields  on  all  sides.  If  a  gang  of  constables  should  be 
watching  for  any  one  to  come  for  the  note  they  could  see 
him  a  long  way  off  crossing  the  fields  or  in  the  road.  But 
no,  sirree !  At  half-past  eight  I  was  up  in  that  tree  as  well 
hidden  as  a  tree  toad,  waiting  for  the  messenger  to  arrive. 

Exactly  on  time,  a  half-grown  boy  rides  up  the  road  on 
a  bicycle,  locates  the  pasteboard  box  at  the  foot  of  the 
fence-post,  slips  a  folded  piece  of  paper  into  it  and  pedals 
away  again  back  toward  Summit. 

I  waited  an  ^hour  and  then  concluded  the  thing  was 
square.  I  slid  down  the  tree,  got  the  note,  slipped  along 
the  fence  till  I  struck  the  woods,  and  was  back  at  the  cave 
in  another  half  an  hour.  I  opened  the  note,  got  near  the 
lantern  and  read  it  to  Bill.  It  was  written  with  a  pen  in  a 
crabbed  hand,  and  the  sum  and  substance  of  it  was  this: 

Two  Desperate  Men. 

Gentlemen:  I  received  your  letter  to-day  by  post, 
in  regard  to  the  ransom  you  ask  for  the  return  of  my  son. 
I  think  you  are  a  little  high  in  your  demands,  and  I  hereby 
make  you  a  counter-proposition,  which  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  you  will  accept.  You  bring  Johnny  home  and 
pay  me  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  cash,  and  I  agree 
to  take  him  off  your  hands.  You  had  better  come  at 
night,  for  the  neighbours  believe  he  is  lost,  and  I  couldn't 
be  responsible  for  what  they  would  do  to  anybody  they 
saw  bringing  him  back.  Very  respectfully, 

EBENEZER 


114  Whirligigs 

"Great  pirates  of  Penzance!"  says  I;  "of  all  the 
impudent " 

But  I  glanced  at  Bill,  and  hesitated.  He  had  the  most 
appealing  look  in  his  eyes  I  ever  saw  on  the  face  of  a  dumb 
or  a  talking  brute. 

"  Sam,"  says  he,  "  what's  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars, 
after  all?  We've  got  the  money.  One  more  night  of 
this  kid  will  send  me  to  a  bed  in  Bedlam.  Besides  being 
a  thorough  gentleman,  I  think  Mr.  Dorset  is  a  spend 
thrift  for  making  us  such  a  liberal  offer.  You  ain't  going 
to  let  the  chance  go,  are  you  ? " 

"Tell  you  the  truth,  Bill,"  says  I,  "this  little  he  ewe 
lamb  has  somewhat  got  on  my  nerves  too.  We'll  take 
him  home,  pay  the  ransom  and  make  our  get-away." 

We  took  him  home  that  night.  We  got  him  to  go 
by  telling  him  that  his  father  had  bought  a  silver-mounted 
rifle  and  a  pair  of  moccasins  for  him,  and  we  were  going 
to  hunt  bears  the  next  day. 

It  was  just  twelve  o'clock  when  we  knocked  at  Ebene- 
zer's  front  door.  Just  at  the  moment  when  I  should  have 
been  abstracting  the  fifteen  hundred  dollars  from  the  box 
under  the  tree,  according  to  the  original  proposition,  Bill 
was  counting  out  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  into 
Dorset's  hand. 

When  the  kid  found  out  we  were  going  to  leave  him  at 
home  he  started  up  a  howl  like  a  calliope  and  fastened 
himself  as  tight  as  a  leech  to  Bill's  leg.  His  father  peeled 
him  away  gradually,  like  a  porous  plaster. 

"How  long  can  you  hold  him  ? "  asks  Bill. 


The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief  115 

"I'm  not  as  strong  as  I  used  to  be,"  says  old  Dorset, 
"but  I  think  I  can  promise  you  ten  minutes." 

"Enough,"  says  Bill.  "In  ten  minutes  I  shall  cross 
the  Central,  Southern  and  Middle  Western  States,  and  be 
legging  it  trippingly  for  the  Canadian  border." 

And,  as  dark  as  it  was,  and  as  fat  as  Bill  was,  and  as 
good  a  runner  as  I  am,  he  was  a  good  mile  and  a  half 
out  of  Summit  before  I  could  catch  up  with  him. 


IX 


JrRITHEE,  smite  the  poet  in  the  eye  when  he  would 
sing  to  you  praises  of  the  month  of  May.  It  is  a  month 
presided  over  by  the  spirits  of  mischief  and  madness. 
Pixies  and  flibbertigibbets  haunt  the  budding  woods: 
Puck  and  his  train  of  midgets  are  busy  in  town  and 
country. 

In  May  nature  holds  up  at  us  a  chiding  finger,  bidding 
us  remember  that  we  are  not  gods,  but  overconceited 
members  of  her  own  great  family.  She  reminds  us  that 
we  are  brothers  to  the  chowder-doomed  clam  and  the 
donkey;  lineal  scions  of  the  pansy  and  the  chimpanzee, 
and  but  cousiris-german  to  the  cooing  doves,  the  quacking 
ducks  and  the  housemaids  and  policemen  in  the  parks. 

In  May  Cupid  shoots  blindfolded  —  millionaires  marry 
stenographers;  wise  professors  woo  white-aproned  gum- 
chewers  behind  quick- lunch  counters;  schoolma'ams 
make  big  bad  boys  remain  after  school;  lads  with  ladders 
steal  lightly  over  lawns  where  Juliet  waits  in  her  trellissed 
window  with  her  telescope  packed;  young  couples  out 
for  a  walk  come  home  married;  old  chaps  put  on  white 
spats  and  promenade  near  the  Normal  School;  even 
married  men,  grown  unwontedly  tender  and  sentimental, 

116 


The  Marry  Month  of  May  117 

whack  their  spouses  on  the  back  and  growl:    "How  goes 
it,  old  girl?" 

This  May,  who  is  no  goddess,  but  Circe,  masquerading 
at  the  dance  given  in  honour  of  the  fair  debutante,  Sum 
mer,  puts  the  kibosh  on  us  all. 

Old  Mr.  Coulson  groaned  a  little,  and  then  sat  up 
straight  in  his  invalid's  chair.  He  had  the  gout  very 
bad  in  one  foot,  a  house  near  Gramercy  Park,  half  a 
million  dollars  and  a  daughter.  And  he  had  a  house 
keeper.  Mrs.  Widdup.  The  fact  and  the  name  deserve 
a  sentence  each.  They  have  it. 

When  May  poked  Mr.  Coulson  he  became  elder  brother 
to  the  turtle-dove.  In  the  window  near  which  he  sat 
were  boxes  of  jonquils,  of  hyacinths,  geraniums  and 
pansies.  The  breeze  brought  their  odour  into  the  room. 
Immediately  there  was  a  well-contested  round  between 
the  breath  of  the  flowers  and  the  able  and  active  effluvium 
from  gout  liniment.  The  liniment  won  easily;  but  not 
before  the  flowers  got  an  uppercut  to  old  Mr.  Coulson 's 
nose.  The  deadly  work  of  the  implacable,  false  enchant 
ress  May  was  done. 

Across  the  park  to  the  olfactories  of  Mr.  Coulson  came 
other  unmistakable,  characteristic,  copyrighted  smells 
of  spring  that  belong  to  the-big-city-above-the-Subway, 
alone.  The  smells  of  hot  asphalt,  underground  caverns, 
gasoline,  patchouli,  orange  peel,  sewer  gas,  Albany  grabs, 
Egyptian  cigarettes,  mortar  and  the  undried  ink  on  news 
papers.  The  inblowing  air  was  sweet  and  mild.  Sparrows 
wrangled  happily  everywhere  outdoors.  Never  trust  May. 


118  Whirligigs 

Mr.  Coulson  twisted  the  ends  of  his  white  mustache, 
cursed  his  foot,  and  pounded  a  bell  on  the  table  by  his 
side. 

In  came  Mrs.  Widdup.  She  was  comely  to  the  eye, 
fair,  flustered,  forty  and  foxy. 

"Higgins  is  out,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  suggestive 
of  vibratory  massage.  "He  went  to  post  a  letter.  Can 
I  do  anything  for  you,  sir?" 

"It's  time  for  my  aconite,"  said  old  Mr.  Coulson. 
"Drop  it  for  me.  The  bottle's  there.  Three  drops. 
In  water.  D  —  that  is,  confound  Higgins !  There's 
nobody  in  this  house  cares  if  I  die  here  in  this  chair  for 
want  of  attention." 

Mrs.  Widdup  sighed  deeply. 

"Don't  be  saying  that,  sir,"  she  said.  "There's  them 
that  would  care  more  than  any  one  knows.  Thirteen 
drops,  you  said,  sir?" 

"Three,"  said  old  man  Coulson. 

He  took  his  dose  and  then  Mrs.  Widdup's  hand.  She 
blushed.  Oh,  yes,  it  can  be  done.  Just  hold  your 
breath  and  compress  the  diaphragm. 

"Mrs.  Widdup,"  said  Mr.  Coulson,  "the  springtime's 
full  upon  us." 

"Ain't  that  right?"  said  Mrs.  Widdup.  "The  air's 
real  warm.  And  there's  bock-beer  signs  on  every  corner. 
And  the  park's  all  yaller  and  pink  and  blue  with  flowers; 
and  I  have  such  shooting  pains  up  my  legs  and 
body." 

"'In  the  spring,'"  quoted  Mr.   Coulson,  curling  his 


The  Marry  Month  of  May  119 

mustache,  "'ay  —  that  is,  a  man's  —  fancy  lightly  turns 
to  thoughts  of  love.'  ' 

"Lawsy,  now!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Widdup;  "ain't  that 
right  ?  Seems  like  it's  in  the  air." 

'"In  the  spring,'"  continued  old  Mr.  Coulson,  "'a 
livelier  iris  shines  upon  the  burnished  dove."1 

"They  do  be  lively,  the  Irish,"  sighed  Mrs.  Widdup 
pensively. 

"Mrs.  Widdup,"  said  Mr.  Coulson,  making  a  face  at 
a  twinge  of  his  gouty  foot,  "this  would  be  a  lonesome 
house  without  you.  I'm  an  —  that  is,  I'm  an  elderly 
man  —  but  I'm  worth  a  comfortable  lot  of  money.  If 
half  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  Government  bonds  and 
the  true  affection  of  a  heart  that,  though  no  longer  beating 
with  the  first  ardour  of  youth,  can  still  throb  with 
genuine  — 

The  loud  noise  of  an  overturned  chair  near  the  portieres 
of  the  adjoining  room  interrupted  the  venerable  and 
scarcely  suspecting  victim  of  May. 

In  stalked  Miss  Van  Meeker  Constantia  Coulson,  bony, 
durable,  tall,  high-nosed,  frigid,  well-bred,  thirty-five, 
in-the-neighbourhood-of-Gramercy-Parkish.  She  put  up 
a  lorgnette.  Mrs.  Widdup  hastily  stooped  and  arranged 
the  bandages  on  Mr.  Coulson's  gouty  foot. 

"I  thought  Higgins  was  with  you,"  said  Miss  Van 
Meeker  Constantia. 

"Higgins  went  out,"  explained  her  father,  "and  Mrs. 
Widdup  answered  the  bell.  That  is  better  now,  Mrs. 
Widdup,  thank  you.  No;  there  is  nothing  else  I  require." 


120  Whirligigs 

The  housekeeper  retired,  pink  under  the  cool,  inquiring 
stare  of  Miss  Coulson. 

"This  spring  weather  is  lovely,  isn't  it,  daughter?" 
said  the  old  man,  consciously  conscious. 

"That's  just  it,"  replied  Miss  Van  Meeker  Constantia 
Coulson,  somewhat  obscurely.  "When  does  Mrs.  Wid- 
dup  start  on  her  vacation,  papa?" 

"I  believe  she  said  a  week  from  to-day,"  said  Mr. 
Coulson. 

Miss  Van  Meeker  Constantia  stood  for  a  minute  at 
the  window  gazing  toward  the  little  park,  flooded  with 
the  mellow  afternoon  sunlight.  With  the  eye  of  a  botanist 
she  viewed  the  flowers  —  most  potent  weapons  of  insid 
ious  May.  With  the  cool  pulses  of  a  virgin  of  Cologne 
she  withstood  the  attack  of  the  ethereal  mildness.  The 
arrows  of  the  pleasant  sunshine  fell  back,  frostbitten, 
from  the  cold  panoply  of  her  unthrilled  bosom.  The 
odour  of  the  flowers  waked  no  soft  sentiments  in  the 
unexplored  recesses  of  her  dormant  heart.  The  chirp  of 
the  sparrows  gave  her  a  pain.  She  mocked  at  May. 

But  although  Miss  Coulson  was  proof  against  the 
season,  she  was  keen  enough  to  estimate  its  power.  She 
knew  that  elderly  men  and  thick-waisted  women  jumped 
as  educated  fleas  in  the  ridiculous  train  of  May,  the  merry 
mocker  of  the  months.  She  had  heard  of  foolish  old 
gentlemen  marrying  their  housekeepers  before.  What  a 
humiliating  thing,  after  all,  was  this  feeling  called 
love! 

The  next  morning  at  8  o'clock,  when  the  iceman  called, 


The  Marry  Month  o/  May 

the  cook  told  him  that  Miss  Coulson  wanted  to  see  him 
in  the  basement. 

"Well,  ain't  I  the  Olcott  and  Depew;  not  mentioning 
the  first  name  at  all?"  said  the  iceman,  admiringly,  of 
himself. 

As  a  concession  he  rolled  his  sleeves  down,  dropped  his 
icehooks  on  a  syringa  and  went  back.  When  Miss  Van 
Meeker  Constantia  Coulson  addressed  him  he  took  off 
his  hat. 

"There  is  a  rear  entrance  to  this  basement,"  said  Miss 
Coulson,  "which  can  be  reached  by  driving  into  the 
vacant  lot  next  door,  where  they  are  excavating  for  a 
building.  I  want  you  to  bring  in  that  way  within  two 
hours  1,000  pounds  of  ice.  You  may  have  to  bring 
another  man  or  two  to  help  you.  I  will  show  you  where 
I  want  it  placed.  I  also  want  1,000  pounds  a  day  delivered 
the  same  way  for  the  next  four  days.  Your  company  may 
charge  the  ice  on  our  regular  bill.  This  is  for  your  extra 
trouble." 

Miss  Coulson  tendered  a  ten-dollar  bill.  The  iceman 
bowed,  and  held  his  hat  in  his  two  hands  behind  him. 

"Not  if  you'll  excuse  me,  lady.  It'll  be  a  pleasure  to 
fix  things  up  for  you  any  way  you  please." 

Alas   for   May! 

About  noon  Mr.  Coulson  knocked  two  glasses  off  his 
table,  broke  the  spring  of  his  bell  and  yelled  for  Higgins 
at  the  same  time. 

"Bring  an  axe,"  commanded  Mr.  Coulson,  sardoni 
cally,  "or  send  out  for  a  quart  of  prussic  acid,  or  have  a 


Whirligigs 

policeman  come  in  and  shoot  me.  I'd  rather  that  than 
be  frozen  to  death." 

"It  does  seem  to  be  getting  cool,  sir,"  said  Higgins. 
"I  hadn't  noticed  it  before.  I'll  close  the  window,  sir." 

"Do,"  said  Mr.  Coulson.  "They  call  this  spring, 
do  they  ?  If  it  keeps  up  long  I'll  go  back  to  Palm  Beach. 
House  feels  like  a  morgue." 

Later  Miss  Coulson  dutifully  came  in  to  inquire  how 
the  gout  was  progressing. 

"  'Stantia,"  said  the  old  man,  "how  is  the  weather  out 
doors?" 

"Bright,"  answered  Miss  Coulson,  "but  chilly.'* 

"Feels  like  the  dead  of  winter  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Coulson. 

"An  instance,"  said  Constantia,  gazing  abstractedly 
out  the  window,  "of  'winter  lingering  in  the  lap  of  spring,' 
though  the  metaphor  is  not  in  the  most  refined  taste." 

A  little  later  she  walked  down  by  the  side  of  the  little 
park  and  on  westward  to  Broadway  to  accomplish  a 
little  shopping. 

A  little  later  than  that  Mrs.  Widdup  entered  the  invalid's 
room. 

"Did  you  ring,  sir?"  she  asked,  dimpling  in  many 
places.  "I  asked  Higgins  to  go  to  the  drug  store,  and  I 
thought  I  heard  your  bell." 

"I  did  not,"  said  Mr.  Coulson. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Widdup,  "I  interrupted  you 
sir,  yesterday  when  you  were  about  to  say  something." 

"How  comes  it,  Mrs.  Widdup,"  said  old  man  Coulson 
sternly,  "that  I  find  it  so  cold  in  this  house?" 


The  Marry  Month  of  May 

"Cold,  sir?"  said  the  housekeeper,  "why,  now,  since 
you  speak  of  it  it  do  seem  cold  in  this  room.  But,  out 
doors  it's  as  warm  and  fine  as  June,  sir.  And  how  this 
weather  do  seem  to  make  one's  heart  jump  out  of  one's 
shirt  waist,  sir.  And  the  ivy  all  leaved  out  on  the  side 
of  the  house,  and  the  hand-organs  playing,  and  the 
children  dancing  on  the  sidewalk  —  'tis  a  great  time  for 
speaking  out  what's  in  the  heart.  You  were  saying 
yesterday,  sir 

"Woman!"  roared  Mr.  Coulson;  "you  are  a  fool.  I 
pay  you  to  take  care  of  this  house.  I  am  freezing  to 
death  in  my  own  room,  and  you  come  in  and  drivel  to 
me  about  ivy  and  hand-organs.  Get  me  an  overcoat  at 
once.  See  that  all  doors  and  windows  are  closed  below. 
An  old,  fat,  irresponsible,  one-sided  object  like  you  prat 
ing  about  springtime  and  flowers  in  the  middle  of  winter! 
When  Higgins  comes  back,  tell  him  to  bring  me  a  hot  rum 
punch.  And  now  get  out!" 

But  who  shall  shame  the  bright  face  of  May  ?  Rogue 
though  she  be  and  disturber  of  sane  men's  peace,  no  wise 
virgin's  cunning  nor  cold  storage  shall  make  her  bow  her 
head  in  the  bright  galaxy  of  months. 

Oh,  yes,  the  story  was  not  quite  finished. 

A  night  passed,  and  Higgins  helped  old  man  Coulson 
in  the  morning  to  his  chair  by  the  window.  The  cold  of 
the  room  was  gone.  Heavenly  odours  and  fragrant  mild 
ness  entered. 

In  hurried  Mrs.  Widdup,  and  stood  by  his  chair.  Mr. 
Coulson  reached  his  bony  hand  and  grasped  her  plump  one. 


124  Whirligigs 

"Mrs.  Widdup,"  he  said,  "this  house  would  be  no 
home  without  you.  I  have  half  a  million  dollars.  If  that 
and  the  true  affection  of  a  heart  no  longer  in  its  youthful 
prime,  but  still  not  cold,  could " 

"I  found  out  what  made  it  cold,"  said  Mrs.  Widdup, 
leaning  against  his  chair.  '  'Twas  ice  —  tons  of  it  — 
in  the  basement  and  in  the  furnace  room,  everywhere.  I 
shut  off  the  registers  that  it  was  coming  through  into  your 
room,  Mr.  Coulson,  poor  soul!  And  now  it's  Maytime 
again." 

"A  true  heart,"  went  on  old  man  Coulson,  a  little 
wanderingly,  "that  the  springtime  has  brought  to  life 
again,  and  —  but  what  will  my  daughter  say,  Mrs. 
Widdup?" 

"Never  fear,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Widdup,  cheerfully. 
"Miss  Coulson,  she  ran  away  with  JJie  iceman  last  night, 
sir!" 


X 

A  TECHNICAL  ERROR 

I  NEVER  cared  especially  for  feuds,  believing  them 
to  be  even  more  overrated  products  of  our  country  than 
grapefruit,  scrapple,  or  honeymoons.  Nevertheless,  if 
I  may  be  allowed,  I  will  tell  you  of  an  Indian  Territory 
feud  of  which  I  was  press-agent,  camp-follower,  and 
inaccessory  during  the  fact. 

I  was  on  a  visit  to  Sam  Durkee's  ranch,  where  I  had  a 
great  time  falling  off  unmanicured  ponies  and  waving 
my  bare  hand  at  the  lower  jaws  of  wolves  about  two 
miles  away.  Sam  was  a  hardened  person  of  about  twenty- 
five,  with  a  reputation  for  going  home  in  the  dark  with 
perfect  equanimity,  though  often  with  reluctance. 

Over  in  the  Creek  Nation  was  a  family  bearing  the 
name  of  Tatum.  I  was  told  that  the  Durkees  and  Tatums 
had  been  feuding  for  years.  Several  of  each  family  had 
bitten  the  grass,  and  it  was  expected  that  more  Nebuchad- 
nezzars  would  follow.  A  younger  generation  of  each  family 
was  growing  up,  and  the  grass  was  keeping  pace  with  them. 
But  I  gathered  that  they  had  fought  fairly;  that  they  had 
not  lain  in  cornfields  and  aimed  at  the  division  of  their 
enemies'  suspenders  in  the  back  —  partly,  perhaps, 
because  there  were  no  cornfields,  and  nobody  wore  more 

125 


126  Whirligigs 

than  one  suspender.  Nor  had  any  woman  or  child  of 
either  house  ever  been  harmed.  In  those  days  —  and 
you  will  find  it  so  yet  —  their  women  were  safe. 

Sam  Durkee  had  a  girl.  (If  it  were  an  all-fiction 
magazine  that  I  expect  to  sell  this  story  to,  I  should  say, 
"Mr.  Durkee  rejoiced  in  a  fiancee.")  Her  name  was 
Ella  Baynes.  They  appeared  to  be  devoted  to  each 
other,  and  to  have  perfect  confidence  in  each  other,  as  all 
couples  do  who  are  and  have  or  aren't  and  haven't.  She 
was  tolerably  pretty,  with  a  heavy  mass  of  brown  haL* 
that  helped  her  along.  He  introduced  me  to  her,  which 
seemed  not  to  lessen  her  preference  for  him;  so  I  reasoned 
that  they  were  surely  soul-mates. 

Miss  Baynes  lived  in  Kingfisher,  twenty  miles  from 
the  ranch.  Sam  lived  on  a  gallop  between  the  two  places. 

One  day  there  came  to  Kingfisher  a  courageous  young 
man,  rather  small,  with  smooth  face  and  regular  features. 
He  made  many  inquiries  about  the  business  of  the  town, 
and  especially  of  the  inhabitants  cognominally.  He 
said  he  was  from  Muscogee,  and  he  looked  it,  with  his 
yellow  shoes  and  crocheted  four-in-hand.  I  met  him 
once  when  I  rode  in  for  the  mail.  He  said  his  name  was 
Beverly  Travers,  which  seemed  rather  improbable. 

There  were  active  times  on  the  ranch,  just  then,  and 
Sam  was  too  busy  to  go  to  town  often.  As  an  incom 
petent  and  generally  worthless  guest,  it  devolved  upon 
me  to  ride  in  for  little  things  such  as  post  cards,  barrels 
of  flour,  baking-powder,  smoking-tobacco,  and  —  letters 
from  Ella. 


A   Technical  Error  127 

One  day,  when  I  was  messenger  for  half  a  gross  of 
cigarette  papers  and  a  couple  of  wagon  tires,  I,  saw  the 
alleged  Beverly  Travers  in  a  yellow- wheeled  buggy  with 
Ella  Baynes,  driving  about  town  as  ostentatiously  as  the 
black,  waxy  mud  would  permit.  I  knew  that  this  infor 
mation  would  bring  no  balm  of  Gilead  to  Sam's  soul,  so 
I  refrained  from  including  it  in  the  news  of  the  city  that 
I  retailed  on  my  return.  But  on  the  next  afternoon  an 
elongated  ex-cowboy  of  the  name  of  Simmons,  an  old- 
time  pal  of  Sam's,  who  kept  a  feed  store  in  Kingfisher, 
rode  out  to  the  ranch  and  rolled  and  burned  many  cigar 
ettes  before  he  would  talk.  When  he  did  make  oration, 
his  words  were  these: 

"Say,  Sam,  there's  been  a  description  of  a  galoot 
miscallin'  himself  Bevel-edged  Travels  impairing  the 
atmospheric  air  of  Kingfisher  for  the  past  two  weeks. 
You  know  who  he  was  ?  He  was  not  otherwise  than 
Ben  Tatum,  from  the  Creek  Nation,  son  of  old  Gopher 
Tatum  that  your  Uncle  Newt  shot  last  February.  You 
know  what  he  done  this  morning  ?  He  killed  your  brother 
Lester  —  shot  him  in  the  co't-house  yard." 

I  wondered  if  Sam  had  heard.  He  pulled  a  twig  from 
a  mesquite  bush,  chewed  it  gravely,  and  said: 

"He  did,  did  he?     He  killed   Lester?" 

"The  same,"  said  Simmons.  "And  he  did  more. 
He  run  away  with  your  girl,  the  same  as  to  say  Miss  Ella 
Baynes.  I  thought  you  might  like  to  know,  so  I  rode 
out  to  impart  the  information." 

"I    am   much   obliged,    Jim,"    said    Sam,    taking   the 


128  Whirligigs 

chewed  twig  from  his  mouth.     "Yes,  I'm  glad  you  rode 
out.     Yes,  I'm  right  glad." 

"Well,  I'll  be  ridin'  back,  I  reckon.  That  boj  I  left 
in  the  feed  store  don't  know  hay  from  oats.  He  shot 
Lester  in  the  back." 

"Shot  him  in  the  back?" 

"Yes,  while  he  was  hitchin'  his  hoss." 

"I'm  much  obliged,  Jim." 

"I  kind  of  thought  you'd  like  to  know  as  soon  as  you 
could." 

"Come  in  and  have  some  coffee  before  you  ride  back, 
Jim?" 

"Why,  no,  I  reckon  not;  I  must  get  back  to  the 
store." 

"  And  you  say 

"Yes,  Sam.  Everybody  seen  'em  drive  away  together 
in  a  buckboard,  with  a  big  bundle,  like  clothes,  tied  up 
in  the  back  of  it.  He  was  drivin'  the  team  he  brought 
over  with  him  from  Muscogee.  They'll  be  hard  to  over 
take  right  away." 

"And  which " 

"I  was  goin'  on  to  tell  you.     They  left  on  the  Guthrie 
road;     but  there's  no  tellin'  which  forks  they'll  take — 
you  know  that." 

"All  right,  Jim;    much  obliged." 

"You're  welcome,  Sam." 

Simmons  rolled  a  cigarette  and  stabbed  his  pony 
with  both  heels.  Twenty  yards  away  he  reined  up  and 
called  back: 


A   Technical  Error 

"You  don't  want  no  —  assistance,  as  you  might  say?" 

"Not  any,  thanks." 

"I  didn't  think  you  would.     Well,  so  long!" 

Sam  took  out  and  opened  a  bone-handled  pocket-knife 
and  scraped  a  dried  piece  of  mud  from  his  left  boot.  I 
thought  at  first  he  was  going  to  swear  a  vendetta  on  the 
blade  of  it,  or  recite  "The  Gipsy's  Curse."  The  few 
feuds  I  had  ever  seen  or  read  about  usually  opened  that 
way.  This  one  seemed  to  be  presented  with  a  new  treat 
ment.  Thus  offered  on  the  stage,  it  would  have  been 
hissed  off,  and  one  of  Belasco's  thrilling  melodramas 
demanded  instead. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Sam,  with  a  profoundly  thoughtful 
expression,  "if  the  cook  has  any  cold  beans  left  over!" 

He  called  Wash,  the  Negro  cook,  and  finding  that  he 
had  some,  ordered  him  to  heat  up  the  pot  and  make  some 
strong  coffee.  Then  we  went  into  Sam's  private  room, 
where  he  slept,  and  kept  his  armoury,  dogs,  and  the  sad 
dles  of  his  favourite  mounts.  He  took  three  or  four  six- 
shooters  out  of  a  bookcase  and  began  to  look  them  over, 
whistling  "The  Cowboy's  Lament"  abstractedly.  After 
ward  he  ordered  the  two  best  horses  on  the  ranch  saddled 
and  tied  to  the  hitching-post. 

Now,  in  the  feud  business,  in  all  sections  of  the  country, 
I  have  observed  that  in  one  particular  there  is  a  delicate 
but  strict  etiquette  belonging.  You  must  not  mention 
the  word  or  refer  to  the  subject  in  the  presence  of  a  feudist. 
It  would  be  more  reprehensible  than  commenting  upon 


130  Whirligigs 

the  mole  on  the  chin  of  your  rich  aunt.  I  found,  later  on, 
that  there  is  another  unwritten  rule,  but  I  think  that 
belongs  solely  to  the  West. 

It  yet  lacked  two  hours  to  supper-time;  but  in  twenty 
minutes  Sam  and  I  were  plunging  deep  into  the  reheated 
beans,  hot  coffee,  and  cold  beef. 

"Nothing  like  a  good  meal  before  a  long  ride,"  said 
Sam.  "Eat  hearty." 

I  had  a  sudden  suspicion. 

"Why  did  you  have  two  horses  saddled?"  I  asked. 

"One,  two  —  one,  two,"  said  Sam.  "You  can  count, 
can't  you?" 

His  mathematics  carried  with  it  a  momentary  qualm 
and  a  lesson.  The  thought  had  not  occurred  to  him  that 
the  thought  could  possibly  occur  to  me  not  to  ride  at 
his  side  on  that  red  road  to  revenge  and  justice.  It  was 
the  higher  calculus.  I  was  booked  for  the  trail.  I  began 
to  eat  more  beans. 

In  an  hour  we  set  forth  at  a  steady  gallop  eastward. 
Our  horses  were  Kentucky-bred,  strengthened  by  the 
mesquite  grass  of  the  west.  Ben  Tatum's  steeds  may 
have  been  swifter,  and  he  had  a  good  lead;  but  if  he  had 
heard  the  punctual  thuds  of  the  hoofs  of  those  trailers  of 
ours,  born  in  the  heart  of  feudland,  he  might  have  felt 
that  retribution  was  creeping  up  on  the  hoof-prints  of 
his  dapper  nags. 

I  knew  that  Ben  Tatum's  card  to  play  was  flight  — 
flight  until  he  came  within  the  safer  territory  of  his  own 
henchmen  and  supporters.  He  knew  that  the  man  pur- 


A   Technical  Error  131 

suing  him  would  follow  the  trail  to  any  end  where  it 
might  lead. 

During  the  ride  Sam  talked  of  the  prospect  for  rain, 
of  the  price  of  beef,  and  of  the  musical  glasses.  You 
would  have  thought  he  had  never  had  a  brother  or  a 
sweetheart  or  an  enemy  on  earth.  There  are  some  sub 
jects  too  big  even  for  the  words  in  the  "Unabridged." 
Knowing  this  phase  of  the  feud  code,  but  not  having 
practised  it  sufficiently,  I  overdid  the  thing  by  telling  some 
slightly  funny  anecdotes.  Sam  laughed  at  exactly  the 
right  place  —  laughed  with  his  mouth.  When  I  caught 
sight  of  his  mouth,  I  wished  I  had  been  blessed  with 
enough  sense  of  humour  to  have  suppressed  those 
anecdotes. 

Our  first  sight  of  them  we  had  in  Guthrie.  Tired  and 
hungry,  we  stumbled,  unwashed,  into  a  little  yellow-pine 
hotel  and  sat  at  a  table.  In  the  opposite  corner  we  saw 
the  fugitives.  They  were  bent  upon  their  meal,  but 
looked  around  at  times  uneasily. 

The  girl  was  dressed  in  brown  —  one  of  these  smooth, 
half-shiny,  silky-looking  affairs  with  lace  collar  and  cuffs, 
and  what  I  believe  they  call  an  accordion-plaited  skirt. 
She  wore  a  thick  brown  veil  down  to  her  nose,  and  a 
broad-brimmed  straw  hat  with  some  kind  of  feathers 
adorning  it.  The  man  wore  plain,  dark  clothes,  and  his 
hair  was  trimmed  very  short.  He  was  such  a  man  as  you 
might  see  anywhere. 

There  they  were  —  ehe  murderer  and  the  woman  he 
had  stolen.  There  we  were  —  the  rightful  avenger, 


132  Whirligigs 

according  to  the  code,  and  the  supernumerary  who  writes 
these  words. 

For  one  time,  at  least,  in  the  heart  of  the  supernumerary 
there  rose  the  killing  instinct.  For  one  moment  he  joined 
the  force  of  combatants  —  orally. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for,  Sam?"  I  said  in  a  whisper. 
"Let  him  have  it  now!" 

Sam  gave  a  melancholy  sigh. 

"You  don't  understand;  but  he  does,"  he  said.  "He 
knows.  Mr.  Tenderfoot,  there's  a  rule  out  here  among 
white  men  in  the  Nation  that  you  can't  shoot  a  man  when 
he's  with  a  woman.  I  never  knew  it  to  be  broke  yet. 
You  can't  do  it.  You've  got  to  get  him  in  a  gang  of  men 
or  by  himself.  That's  why.  He  knows  it,  too.  We 
all  know.  So,  that's  Mr.  Ben  Tatum!  One  of  the 
'pretty  men'!  I'll  cut  him  out  of  the  herd  before  they 
leave  the  hotel,  and  regulate  his  account!" 

After  supper  the  flying  pair  disappeared  quickly. 
Although  Sam  haunted  lobby  and  stairway  and  halls  half 
the  night,  in  some  mysterious  way  the  fugitives  eluded 
him;  and  in  the  morning  the  veiled  lady  in  the  brown 
dress  wTith  the  accordion-plaited  skirt  and  the  dapper 
young  man  with  the  close-clipped  hair,  and  the  buckboard 
with  the  prancing  nags,  were  gone. 

It  is  a  monotonous  story,  that  of  the  ride;  so  it  shall  be 
curtailed.  Once  again  we  overlook  them  on  a  road.  We 
were  about  fifty  yards  behind.  They  turned  in  the 
buekboard  and  looked  at  us;  then  drove  on  without 


A   Technical  Error  133 

whipping  up  their  horses.  Their  safety  no  longer  lay 
in  speed.  Ben  Tatum  knew.  He  knew  that  the  only 
rock  of  safety  left  to  him  was  the  code.  There  is  no 
doubt  that,  had  he  been  alone,  the  matter  would  have  been 
settled  quickly  with  Sam  Durkee  in  the  usual  way; 
but  he  had  something  at  his  side  that  kept  still  the 
trigger-finger  of  both.  It  seemed  likely  that  he  was 
no  coward. 

So,  you  may  perceive  that  woman,  on  occasions,  may 
postpone  instead  of  precipitating  conflict  between  man 
and  man.  But  not  willingly  or  consciously.  She  is 
oblivious  of  codes. 

Five  miles  farther,  we  came  upon  the  future  great 
Western  city  of  Chandler.  The  horses  of  pursuers  and 
pursued  were  starved  and  weary.  There  was  one  hotel 
that  offered  danger  to  man  and  entertainment  to  beast; 
so  the  four  of  us  met  again  in  the  dining  room  at  the 
ringing  of  a  bell  so  resonant  and  large  that  it  had  cracked 
the  welkin  long  ago.  The  dining  room  was  not  as  large 
as  the  one  at  Guthrie. 

Just  as  we  were  eating  apple  pie  —  how  Ben  Davises 
and  tragedy  impinge  upon  each  other!  — I  noticed  Sam 
looking  with  keen  intentness  at  our  quarry  where  they 
were  seated  at  a  table  across  the  room.  The  girl  still 
wore  the  browTn  dress  with  lace  collar  and  cuffs,  and  the 
veil  drawn  down  to  her  nose.  The  man  bent  over  his 
plate,  with  his  close  cropped  head  held  low. 

"There's  a  code,"  I  heard  Sam  say,  either  to  me  or  to 
himself,  "  that  won't  let  you  shoot  a  man  in  the  company 


134  Whirligigs 

of  a  woman;  but,  by  thunder,  there  ain't  one  to  keep  you 
from  killing  a  woman  in  the  company  of  a  man!" 

And,  quicker  than  my  mind  could  follow  his  argument, 
he  whipped  a  Colt's  automatic  from  under  his  left  arm 
and  pumped  six  bullets  into  the  body  that  the  brown 
dress  covered  —  the  brown  dress  with  the  lace  collar  and 
cuffs  and  the  accordion-plaited  skirt. 

The  young  person  in  the  dark  sack  suit,  from  whose 
head  and  from  whose  life  a  woman's  glory  had  been 
clipped,  laid  her  head  on  her  arms  stretched  upon  the 
table;  while  people  came  running  to  raise  Ben  Tatum 
from  the  floor  in  his  feminine  masquerade  that  had  given 
Sam  the  opportunity  to  set  aside,  technically,  the  obliga 
tions  of  the  code. 


FEW  young  couples  in  the  Big-City-of -Bluff  began 
their  married  existence  with  greater  promise  of  happiness 
than  did  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Claude  Turpin.  They  felt  no 
especial  animosity  toward  each  other;  they  were  comfort 
ably  established  in  a  handsome  apartment  house  that 
had  a  name  and  accommodations  like  those  of  a  sleeping- 
car;  they  were  living  as  expensively  as  the  couple  on 
the  next  floor  above  who  had  twice  their  income; 
and  their  marriage  had  occurred  on  a  wager,  a  ferry 
boat  and  first  acquaintance,  thus  securing  a 
sensational  newspaper  notice  with  their  names  attached 
to  pictures  of  the  Queen  of  Roumania  and  M.  Santos- 
Dumont. 

Turpin's  income  was  $200  per  month.  On  pay  day, 
after  calculating  the  amounts  due  for  rent,  instalments 
on  furniture  and  piano,  gas,  and  bills  owed  to  the  florist, 
confectioner,  milliner,  tailor,  wine  merchant  and  cab 
company,  the  Turpins  would  find  that  they  still  had  $200 
left  to  spend.  How  to  do  this  is  one  of  the  secrets  of 
metropolitan  life. 

The  domestic  life  of  the  Turpins  was  a  beautiful  picture 
to  see.  But  you  couldn't  gaze  upon  it  as  you  could 

135 


136  Whirligigs 

at  an  oleograph  of  "Don't  Wake  Grandma,"  or  "Brook 
lyn  by  Moonlight." 

You  had  to  blink  when  you  looked  at  it;  and  you  heard 
a  fizzing  sound  just  like  the  machine  with  a  "scope"  at 
the  end  of  it.  Yes;  there  wasn't  much  repose  about  the 
picture  of  the  Turpins'  domestic  life.  It  was  something 
like  "Spearing  Salmon  in  the  Columbia  River,"  or  "Jap 
anese  Artillery  in  Action." 

Every  day  was  just  like  another;  as  the  days  are  in 
New  York.  In  the  morning  Turpin  would  take  bromo- 
seltzer,  his  pocket  change  from  under  the  clock,  his  hat, 
no  breakfast  and  his  departure  for  the  office.  At  noon 
Mrs.  Turpin  would  get  out  of  bed  and  humour,  put  on 
a  kimono,  airs,  and  the  water  to  boil  for  coffee. 

Turpin  lunched  downtown.  He  came  home  at  G 
to  dress  for  dinner.  They  always  dined  out.  They 
strayed  from  the  chop-house  to  chop-sueydom,  from 
terrace  to  table  d'hote,  from  rathskeller  to  roadhouse, 
from  cafe  to  casino,  from  Maria's  to  the  Martha  Wash 
ington.  Such  is  domestic  life  in  the  great  city.  Your 
vine  is  the  mistletoe;  your  fig  tree  bears  dates.  Your 
household  gods  are  Mercury  and  John  Howard  Payne. 
For  the  wedding  march  you  now  hear  only  "Come  with 
the  Gypsy  Bride."  You  rarely  dine  at  the  same  place 
twice  in  succession.  You  tire  of  the  food;  and,  besides, 
you  want  to  give  them  time  for  the  question  of  that  souve 
nir  silver  sugar  bowl  to  blow  over. 

The  Turpins  were  therefore  happy.  They  made  many 
warm  and  delightful  friends,  some  of  whom  they  remem- 


Suite  Homes  and  Their  Romance        137 

bered  the  next  day.  Their  home  life  was  an  ideal  one, 
according  to  the  rules  and  regulations  of  the  Book  of  Bluff. 

There  came  a  time  when  it  dawned  upon  Turpin 
that  his  wife  was  getting  away  with  too  much  money. 
If  you  belong  to  the  near-swell  class  in  the  Big  City, 
and  your  income  is  $200  per  month,  and  you  find  at  the 
end  of  the  month,  after  looking  over  the  bills  for  current 
expenses,  that  you,  yourself,  have  spent  $150,  you  very 
naturally  wonder  what  has  become  of  the  other  $50. 
So  you  suspect  your  wife.  And  perhaps  you  give  her 
a  hint  that  something  needs  explanation. 

"I  say,  Vivien,"  said  Turpin,  one  afternoon  when  they 
were  enjoying  in  rapt  silence  the  peace  and  quiet  of  their 
cozy  apartment,  "you've  been  creating  a  hiatus  big 
enough  for  a  dog  to  crawl  through  in  this  month's  hon 
orarium.  You  haven't  been  paying  your  dressmaker 
anything  on  account,  have  you?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  No  sounds  could  be 
heard  except  the  breathing  of  the  fox  terrier,  and  the 
subdued,  monotonous  sizzling  of  Vivien's  fulvous  locks 
against  the  insensate  curling  irons.  Claude  Turpin, 
sitting  upon  a  pillow  that  he  had  thoughtfully  placed 
upon  the  convolutions  of  the  apartment  sofa,  narrowly 
watched  the  riante,  lovely  face  of  his  wife. 

"Claudie,  dear,"  said  she,  touching  her  finger  to  her 
ruby  tongue  and  testing  the  unresponsive  curling  irons, 
"you  do  me  an  injustice.  Mme.  Toinette  has  not  seen  a 
cent  of  mine  since  the  day  you  paid  your  tailor  ten  dollars 
on  account." 


138  Whirligigs 

Turpin's  suspicions  were  allayed  for  the  time.  But 
one  day  soon  there  came  an  anonymous  letter  to  him 
that  read : 

"Watch  your  wife.  She  is  blowing  in  your  money 
secretly.  I  was  a  sufferer  just  as  you  are.  The  place 
is  No.  345  Blank  Street.  A  word  to  the  wise,  etc. 

"A  MAN  WHO  KNOWS" 

Turpin  took  this  letter  to  the  captain  of  police  of 
the  precinct  that  he  lived  in. 

"My  precinct  is  as  clean  as  a  hound's  tooth,"  said  the 
captain.  "The  lid's  shut  down  as  close  there  as  it  is 
over  the  eye  of  a  Williamsburg  girl  when  she's  kissed  at 
a  party.  But  if  you  think  there's  anything  queer  at  the 
address,  I'll  go  there  with  ye." 

On  the  next  afternoon  at  3,  Turpin  and  the  captain 
crept  softly  up  the  stairs  of  No.  345  Blank  Street.  A 
dozen  plain-clothes  men,  dressed  in  full  police  uniforms, 
so  as  to  allay  suspicion,  waited  in  the  hall  below. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  was  a  door,  which  was  found 
to  be  locked.  The  captain  took  a  key  from  his  pocket 
and  unlocked  it.  The  two  men  entered. 

They  found  themselves  in  a  large  room,  occupied 
by  twenty  or  twenty-five  elegantly  clothed  ladies.  Racing 
charts  hung  against  the  walls,  a  ticker  clicked  in  one 
corner;  with  a  telephone  receiver  to  his  ear  a  man  was 
calling  out  the  various  positions  of  the  horses  in  a  very 
exciting  race.  The  occupants  of  the  room  looked  up  at 
the  intruders;  but,  as  if  reassured  by  the  sight  of  the 


Suite  Homes  and  Their  Romance       139 

captain's  uniform,  they  reverted  their  attention  to  the 
man  at  the  telephone. 

"You  see,"  said  the  captain  to  Turpin,  "the  value  of 
an  anonymous  letter!  No  high-minded  and  self-respect 
ing  gentleman  should  consider  one  worthy  of  notice. 
Is  your  wife  among  this  assembly,  Mr.  Turpin  ?" 

"She  is  not,"  said  Turpin. 

"And  if  she  was,"  continued  the  captain,  "would  she 
be  within  the  reach  of  the  tongue  of  slander?  These 
ladies  constitute  a  Browning  Society.  They  meet  to 
discuss  the  meaning  of  the  great  poet.  The  telephone 
is  connected  with  Boston,  whence  the  parent  society 
transmits  frequently  its  interpretations  of  the  poems.  Be 
ashamed  of  yer  suspicions,  Mr.  Turpin." 

"Go  soak  your  shield,"  said  Turpin.  "Vivien  knows 
how  to  take  care  of  herself  in  a  pool-room.  She's  not 
dropping  anything  on  the  ponies.  There  must  be  some 
thing  queer  going  on  here." 

"Nothing  but  Browning,"  said  the  captain.  "Hear 
that?" 

"Thanatopsis  by  a  nose,"  drawled  the  man  at  the 
telephone. 

"That's  not  Browning;  that's  Longfellow,"  said 
Turpin,  who  sometimes  read  books. 

"  Back  to  the  pasture ! "  exclaimed  the  captain.  "  Long 
fellow  made  the  pacing-to- wagon  record  of  7.53  'way 
back  in  1868." 

"I  believe  there's  something  queer  about  this  joint," 
repeated  Turpin. 


140  Whirligigs 

"I  don't  see  it,"  said  the  captain. 

"I  know  it  looks  like  a  pool-room,  all  right,"  persisted 
Turpin,  "but  that's  all  a  blind.  Vivien  has  been  dropping 
a  lot  of  coin  somewhere.  I  believe  there's  some  under 
handed  work  going  on  here." 

A  number  of  racing  sheets  were  tacked  close  together, 
covering  a  large  space  on  one  of  the  walls.  Turpin, 
suspicious,  tore  several  of  them  down.  A  door,  pre 
viously  hidden,  was  revealed.  Turpin  placed  an  ear  to 
the  crack  and  listened  intentlv.  He  heard  the  soft  hum 

v 

of  many  voices,  low  and  guarded  laughter,  and  a  sharp, 
metallic  clicking  and  scraping  as  if  from  a  multitude  of 
tiny  but  busy  objects. 

"My  God!  It  is  as  I  feared!"  whispered  Turpin  to 
himself.  "Summon  your  men  at  once!"  he  called  to  the 
captain.  "She  is  in  there,  I  know." 

At  the  blowing  of  the  captain's  whistle  the  uniformed 
plain-clothes  men  rushed  up  the  stairs  into  the  pool 
room.  When  they  saw  the  betting  paraphernalia  distrib 
uted  around  they  halted,  surprised  and  puzzled  to  know 
why  they  had  been  summoned. 

But  the  captain  pointed  to  the  locked  door  and  bade 
them  break  it  down.  In  a  few  moments  they  demolished 
it  with  the  axes  they  carried.  Into  the  other  room  sprang 
Claude  Turpin,  with  the  captain  at  his  heels. 

The  scene  was  one  that  lingered  long  in  Turpin 's 
mind.  Nearly  a  score  of  women  —  women  expensively 
and  fashionably  clothed,  many  beautiful  and  of  refined 
appearance  —  had  been  seated  at  little  marble-topped 


Suite  Homes  and  Their  Romance       141 

tables.  When  the  police  burst  open  the  door  they 
shrieked  and  ran  here  and  there  like  gayly  plumed  birds 
that  had  been  disturbed  in  a  tropical  grove.  Some 
became  hysterical;  one  or  two  fainted;  several  knelt  at 
the  feet  of  the  officers  and  besought  them  for  mercy  on 
account  of  their  families  and  social  position. 

A  man  who  had  been  seated  behind  a  desk  had  seized 
a  roll  of  currency  as  large  as  the  ankle  of  a  Paradise 
Roof  Gardens  chorus  girl  and  jumped  out  of  the  window. 
Half  a  dozen  attendants  huddled  at  one  end  of  the  room, 
breathless  from  fear. 

Upon  the  tables  remained  the  damning  and  incon 
trovertible  evidences  of  the  guilt  of  the  habituees  of  that 
sinister  room  —  dish  after  dish  heaped  high  with  ice 
cream,  and  surrounded  by  stacks  of  empty  ones,  scraped 
to  the  last  spoonful. 

"Ladies,"  said  the  captain  to  his  weeping  circle  of 
prisoners,  "I'll  not  hold  any  of  yez.  Some  of  yez  I  recog 
nize  as  having  fine  houses  and  good  standing  in  the 
community,  with  hard-working  husbands  and  childer 
at  home.  But  I'll  read  ye  a  bit  of  a  lecture  before  ye  go. 
In  the  next  room  there's  a  20-to-l  shot  just  dropped  in 
under  the  wire  three  lengths  ahead  of  the  field.  Is  this 
the  way  ye  waste  your  husbands'  money  instead  of  help 
ing  earn  it?  Home  wid  yez!  The  lid's  on  the  ice-cream 
freezer  in  this  precinct." 

Claude  Turpin's  wife  was  among  the  patrons  of  the 
raided  room.  He  led  her  to  their  apartment  in  stern 
silence.  There  she  wept  so  remorsefully  and  besought 


142  Whirligigs 

his  forgiveness  so  pleadingly  that  he  forgot  his  just  anger, 
and  soon  he  gathered  his  penitent  golden-haired  Vivien 
in  his  arms  and  forgave  her. 

"Darling,"  she  murmured,  half  sobbingly,  as  the  moon 
light  drifted  through  the  open  window,  glorifying  her 
sweet,  upturned  face,  "I  know  I  done  wrong.  I  will 
never  touch  ice  cream  again.  I  forgot  you  were  not 
a  millionaire.  I  used  to  go  there  every  day.  But  to-day 
I  felt  some  strange,  sad  presentiment  of  evil,  and  I  was 
not  myself.  I  ate  only  eleven  saucers." 

"Say  no  more,"  said  Claude,  gently  as  he  fondly 
caressed  her  waving  curls. 

"And  you  are  sure  that  you  fully  forgive  me?"  asked 
Vivien,  gazing  at  him  entreatingly  with  dewy  eyes  of 
heavenly  blue. 

"Almost  sure,  little  one,"  answered  Claude,  stooping 
and  lightly  touching  her  snowy  forehead  with  his  lips. 
"I'll  let  you  know  later  on.  I've  got  a  month's  salary 
down  on  Vanilla  to  win  the  three-year-old  steeplechase 
to-morrow;  and  if  the  ice-cream  hunch  is  to  the  good 
you  are  It  again  —  see?" 


XII 
THE  WHIRLIGIG   OF  LIFE 

JUSTICE -OF -THE -PEACE  Benaja  Widdup  sat  in 
the  door  of  his  office  smoking  his  elder-stem  pipe.  Half 
way  to  the  zenith  the  Cumberland  range  rose  blue-gray 
in  the  afternoon  haze.  A  speckled  hen  swaggered  down 
the  main  street  of  the  "  settlement,"  cackling  foolishly. 

Up  the  road  came  a  sound  of  creaking  axles,  and  then 
a  slow  cloud  of  dust,  and  then  a  bull-cart  bearing  Ransie 
Uilbro  and  his  wife.  The  cart  stopped  at  the  Justice's 
door,  and  the  two  climbed  down.  Ransie  was  a  narrow 
six  feet  of  sallow  brown  skin  and  yellow  hair.  The 
imperturbability  of  the  mountains  hung  upon  him  like 
a  suit  of  armour.  The  woman  was  calicoed,  angled, 
snuff-brushed,  and  weary  with  unknown  desires.  Through 
it  all  gleamed  a  faint  protest  of  cheated  youth  unconscious 
of  its  loss. 

The  Justice  of  the  Peace  slipped  his  feet  into  his  shoes, 
for  the  sake  of  dignity,  and  moved  to  let  them  enter. 

"  We-all,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  voice  like  the  wind 
blowing  through  pine  boughs,  "wants  a  divo'ce."  She 
looked  at  Ransie  to  see  if  he  noted  any  flaw  or  ambiguity 
or  evasion  or  partiality  or  self-partisanship  in  her  state 
ment  of  their  business. 

143 


144  Whirligigs 

"A  divo'ce,"  repeated  Ransie,  with  a  solemn  nod. 
"We-all  can't  git  along  together  nohow.  It's  lonesome 
enough  fur  to  live  in  the  mount'ins  when  a  man  and  a 
woman  keers  fur  one  another.  But  when  she's  a-spittin" 
like  a  wildcat  or  a-sullenin'  like  a  hoot-owl  in  the  cabin, 
a  man  ain't  got  no  call  to  live  with  her." 

"When  he's  a  no-'count  varmint,"  said  the  woman, 
without  any  especial  warmth,  "a-traipsin'  along  oi' 
scalawags  and  moonshiners  and  a-layin'  on  his  back 
pizen  'ith  co'n  whiskey,  and  a-pesterin'  folks  with  a  pack 
o'  hungry,  triflin'  houn's  to  feed!" 

"  When  she  keeps  a-throwin'  skillet  lids,"  came  Ransiers 
antiphony,  "  and  slings  b'ilin'  water  on  the  best  coon-dog 
in  the  Cumberlands,  and  sets  herself  agin'  cookin'  a  man's 
victuals,  and  keeps  him  awake  o'  nights  accusin'  him 
of  a  sight  of  doin's!" 

"Wlien  he's  al'ays  a-fightin'  the  revenues,  and  gits  a 
hard  name  in  the  mount'ins  fur  a  mean  man,  who's 
gwine  to  be  able  fur  to  sleep  o'  nights  ?  " 

The  Justice  of  the  Peace  stirred  deliberately  to  his 
duties.  He  placed  his  one  chair  and  a  wooden  stool 
for  his  petitioners.  He  opened  his  book  of  statutes  on 
the  table  and  scanned  the  index.  Presently  he  wiped  his 
spectacles  and  shifted  his  inkstand. 

"The  law  and  the  statutes,"  said  he,  "air  silent  on  the 
subjeck  of  divo'ce  as  fur  as  the  jurisdiction  of  this  co'l 
air  concerned.  But,  accordin'  to  equity  and  the  Con 
stitution  and  the  golden  rule,  it's  a  bad  barg'in  that  can't 
run  both  ways.  If  a  justice  of  the  peace  can  marry  a 


The  Whirligig  of  Life  145 

couple,  it's  plain  that  he  is  bound  to  be  able  to  divo'ce 
'ern.  This  here  office  will  issue  a  decree  of  divo'ce 
and  abide  by  the  decision  of  the  Supreme  Co't  to  hold  it 
good." 

Ransie  Bilbro  drew  a  small  tobacco-bag  from  his 
trousers  pocket.  Out  of  this  he  shook  upon  the  table 
a  five-dollar  note.  "Sold  a  b'arskin  and  two  foxes  fur 
thai,"  he  remarked.  "It's  all  the  money  we  got." 

"The  regular  price  of  a  divo'ce  in  this  co't,"  said  the 
Justice,  "air  five  dollars."  He  stuffed  the  bill  into  the 
pocket  of  his  homespun  vest  with  a  deceptive  air  of  indiffer 
ence.  With  much  bodily  toil  and  mental  travail  he  wrote 
the  decree  upon  half  a  sheet  of  foolscap,  and  then  copied 
it  upon  the  other.  Ransie  Bilbro  and  his  wife  listened  to  his 
reading  of  the  document  that  was  to  give  them  freedom: 

"  Know  all  men  by  these  presents  that  Ransie  Bilbro 
and  his  wife,  Ariela  Bilbro,  this  day  personally  appeared 
before  me  and  promises  that  hereinafter  they  will  neither 
love,  honour,  nor  obey  each  other,  neither  for  better  nor 
worse,  being  of  sound  mind  and  body,  and  accept  summons 
for  divorce  according  to  the  peace  and  dignity  of  the  State. 
Herein  fail  not,  so  help  you  God.  Benaja  Widdup, 
justice  of  the  peace  in  and  for  the  county  of  Piedmont, 
State  of  Tennessee." 

The  Justice  was  about  to  hand  one  of  the  documents 
to  Ransie.  The  voice  of  Ariela  delayed  the  transfer. 
Both  men  looked  at  her.  Their  dull  masculinity  was 
confronted  by  something  sudden  and  unexpected  in  the 
woman. 


146  Whirligigs 

"  Judge,  don't  you  give  him  that  air  paper  yit.  'Tain't 
all  settled,  nohow.  I  got  to  have  my  rights  first.  I 
got  to  have  my  ali-money.  'Tain't  no  kind  of  a  way  to  do 
fur  a  man  to  divo'ce  his  wife  'thout  her  havin'  a  cent  fur 
to  do  with.  I'm  a-layin'  off  to  be  a-goin'  up  to  brother 
Ed's  up  on  Hogback  Mount'in.  I'm  bound  fur  to  hev 
a  pa'r  of  shoes  and  some  snuff  and  things  besides.  Ef 
Ranee  kin  affo'd  a  divo'ce,  let  him  pay  me  ali-money." 

Ransie  Bilbro  was  stricken  to  dumb  perplexity.  There 
had  been  no  previous  hint  of  alimony.  Women  were 
always  bringing  up  startling  and  unlooked-for  issues. 

Justice  Benaja  Widdup  felt  that  the  point  demanded 
judicial  decision.  The  authorities  were  also  silent  on  the 
subject  of  alimony.  But  the  woman's  feet  were  bare. 
The  trail  to  Hogback  Mountain  was  steep  and  flinty. 

"Ariela  Bilbro,"  he  asked,  in  official  tones,  "how 
much  did  you  'low  would  be  good  and  sufficient  ali-money 
in  the  case  befo'  the  co't." 

"I  'lowed,"  she  answered,  "fur  the  shoes  and  all,  to 
say  five  dollars.  That  ain't  much  fur  ali-money,  but 
I  reckon  that'll  git  me  to  up  brother  Ed's." 

"The  amount,"  said  the  Justice,  "air  not  onreasonable. 
Ransie  Bilbro,  you  air  ordered  by  the  co't  to  pay  the  plain 
tiff  the  sum  of  five  dollars  befo'  the  decree  of  divo'ce  air 
issued." 

"I  hain't  no  mo'  money,"  breathed  Ransie,  heavily. 
"I  done  paid  you  all  I  had." 

"Otherwise,"  said  the  Justice,  looking  severely  over 
his  spectacles,  "you  air  in  contempt  of  co't." 


The  Whirligig  of  Life  147 

"I  reckon  if  you  gimme  till  to-morrow,"  pleaded  the 
husband,  "I  mout  be  able  to  rake  or  scrape  it  up 
somewhars.  I  never  looked  for  to  be  a-payin'  no  ali- 
money." 

"The  case  air  adjourned,"  said  Benaja  Widdup,  "till 
to-morrow,  when  you-all  will  present  yo' selves  and  obey 
the  order  of  the  co't.  Followin'  of  which  the  decrees 
of  divo'ce  will  be  delivered."  He  sat  down  in  the  door 
and  began  to  loosen  a  shoestring. 

"We  mout  as  well  go  down  to  Uncle  Ziah's,"  decided 
Ransie,  "and  spend  the  night."  He  climbed  into  the 
cart  on  one  side,  and  Ariela  climbed  in  on  the  other. 
Obeying  the  flap  of  his  rope,  the  little  red  bull  slowly 
came  around  on  a  tack,  and  the  cart  crawled  away  in  the 
nimbus  arising  from  its  wheels. 

Justice-of-the-peace  Benaja  Widdup  smoked  his  elder- 
stem  pipe.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  got  his  weekly  paper, 
and  read  it  until  the  twilight  dimmed  its  lines.  Then 
he  lit  the  tallow  candle  on  his  table,  and  read  until  the 
moon  rose,  marking  the  time  for  supper.  He  lived  in 
the  double  log  cabin  on  the  slope  near  the  girdled  poplar. 
Going  home  to  supper  he  crossed  a  little  branch  darkened 
by  a  laurel  thicket.  The  dark  figure  of  a  man  stepped 
from  the  laurels  and  pointed  a  rifle  at  his  breast.  His 
hat  was  pulled  down  low,  and  something  covered  most  of 
his  face. 

"I  want  yo'  money,"  said  the  figure,  '"thout  any  talk. 
I'm  gettin'  nervous,  and  my  finger's  a-wabblin'  on  this 
here  trigger." 


148  Whirligigs 

"I've  only  got  f-f-five  dollars,"  said  the  Justice,  pro 
ducing  it  from  his  vest  pocket. 

"Roll  it  up,"  came  the  order,  "and  stick  it  in  the  end 
of  this  here  gun-bar'l." 

The  bill  was  crisp  and  new.  Even  fingers  that  were 
clumsy  and  trembling  found  little  difficulty  in  making 
a  spill  of  it  and  inserting  it  (this  with  less  ease)  into  the 
muzzle  of  the  rifle. 

"Now  I  reckon  you  kin  be  goin'  along,"  said  the  robber. 

The  Justice  lingered  not  on  his  way. 

The  next  day  came  the  little  red  bull,  drawing  the  cart 
to  the  office  door.  Justice  Benaja  Widdup  had  his  shoes 
on,  for  he  was  expecting  the  visit.  In  his  presence  Ransie 
Bilbro  handed  to  his  wife  a  five-dollar  bill.  The  official's 
eye  sharply  viewed  it.  It  seemed  to  curl  up  as  though  it 
had  been  rolled  and  inserted  into  the  end  of  a  gun-barrel. 
But  the  Justice  refrained  from  comment.  It  is  true  that 
other  bills  might  be  inclined  to  curl.  He  handed  each 
one  a  decree  of  divorce.  Each  stood  awkwardly  silent, 
slowly  folding  the  guarantee  of  freedom.  The  woman 
cast  a  shy  glance  full  of  constraint  at  Ransie. 

"I  reckon  you'll  be  goin'  back  up  to  the  cabin,"  she  said, 
"along  'ith  the  bull-cart.  There's  bread  in  the  tin  box 
settin'  on  the  shelf.  I  put  the  bacon  in  the  b'ilin'-pot 
to  keep  the  hounds  from  gittin'  it.  Don't  forget  to  wind 
the  clock  to-night." 

"You  air  a-goin'  to  your  brother  Ed's  ?"  asked  Ransie, 
with  fine  unconcern. 


The  Whirligig  of  Life  149 

"I  was  'lowin'  to  get  along  up  thar  afore  night.  I 
ain't  sayin'  as  they'll  pester  theyselves  any  to  make  me 
welcome,  but  I  hain't  nowhar  else  fur  to  go.  It's  a  right 
smart  ways,  and  I  reckon  I  better  be  goin'.  I'll  be  a-sayin' 
good-bye,  Ranse  —  that  is,  if  you  keer  fur  to  say  so." 

"I  don't  know  as  anybody's  a  hound  dog,"  said  Ransie, 
in  a  martyr's  voice,  "fur  to  not  want  to  say  good-bye  — 
'less  you  air  so  anxious  to  git  away  that  you  don't  want 
me  to  say  it." 

Ariela  was  silent.  She  folded  the  five-dollar  bill  and 
her  decree  carefully,  and  placed  them  in  the  bosom  of 
her  dress.  Benaja  Widdup  watched  the  money  disappear 
with  mournful  eyes  behind  his  spectacles. 

And  then  with  his  next  words  he  achieved  rank  (as 
his  thoughts  ran)  with  either  the  great  crowd  of  the  wrorld's 
sympathizers  or  the  little  crowd  of  its  great  financiers. 

"Be  kind  o'  lonesome  in  the  old  cabin  to-night,  Ranse," 
he  said. 

Ransie  Bilbro  stared  out  at  the  Cumberlands,  clear 
blue  now  in  the  sunlight.  He  did  not  look  at  Ariela. 

"I  'low  it  might  be  lonesome,"  he  said;  "but  when 
folks  gits  mad  and  wants  a  divo'ce,  you  can't  make  folks 
stay." 

"There's  others  wanted  a  divo'ce,"  said  Ariela,  speaking 
to  the  wooden  stool.  "Besides,  nobody  don't  want  no 
body  to  stay." 

"Nobody  never  said  they  didn't." 

"Nobody  never  said  they  did.  I  reckon  I  better 
start  on  now  to  brother  Ed's." 


150  Whirligigs 

"  Nobody  can't  wind  that  old  clock." 

"Want  me  to  go  back  along  'ith  you  in  the  cart  and 
wind  it  fur  you,  Ranse  ?  " 

The  mountaineer's  countenance  was  proof  against 
emotion.  But  he  reached  out  a  big  hand  and  enclosed 
Ariela's  thin  brown  one.  Her  soul  peeped  out  once 
through  her  impassive  face,  hallowing  it. 

"Them  hounds  shan't  pester  you  no  more,"  said 
Ransie.  "I  reckon  I  been  mean  and  low  down.  You 
wind  that  clock,  Ariela." 

"My  heart  hit's  in  that  cabin,  Ranse,"  she  whispered, 
"along 'ith  you.  I  ai'nt  a-goin'  to  git  mad  no  more.  Le's 
be  startin',  Ranse,  so's  we  kin  git  home  by  sundown." 

Justice-of-the-peace  Benaja  Widdup  interposed  as  they 
started  for  the  door,  forgetting  his  presence. 

"In  the  name  of  the  State  of  Tennessee,"  he  said,  "I 
forbid  you-all  to  be  a-defyin'  of  its  laws  and  statutes. 
This  co't  is  mo'  than  willin'  and  full  of  joy  to  see  the 
clouds  of  discord  and  misunderstandin'  rollin'  away 
from  two  lovin'  hearts,  but  it  air  the  duty  of  the  co't  to 
p'eserve  the  morals  and  integrity  of  the  State.  The  co't 
reminds  you  that  you  air  no  longer  man  and  wife,  but  air 
divo'ced  by  regular  decree,  and  as  such  air  not  entitled 
to  the  benefits  and  'purtenances  of  the  mattermonal 
estate." 

Ariela  caught  Ransie's  arm.  Did  those  words  mean 
that  she  must  lose  him  now  when  they  had  just  learned 
the  lesson  of  life  ? 

"But  the  co't  air  prepared,"  went  on  the  Justice,  "fur 


The  Whirligig  of  Life  151 

to  remove  the  disabilities  set  up  by  the  decree  of  divo'ce. 
The  co't  air  on  hand  to  perform  the  solemn  ceremony 
of  marri'ge,  thus  fixin'  things  up  and  enablin'  the  parties 
in  the  case  to  resume  the  honour'ble  and  elevatin'  state 
of  mattermony  which  they  desires.  The  fee  fur  per- 
formin'  said  ceremony  will  be,  in  this  case,  to  wit,  five 
dollars." 

Ariela  caught  the  gleam  of  promise  in  his  words. 
Swiftly  her  hand  went  to  her  bosom.  Freely  as  an 
alighting  dove  the  bill  fluttered  to  the  Justice's  table. 
Her  sallow  cheek  coloured  as  she  stood  hand  in  hand 
with  Ransie  and  listened  to  the  reuniting  words. 

Ransie  helped  her  into  the  cart,  and  climbed  in  beside 
her.  The  little  red  bull  turned  once  more,  and  they 
set  out,  hand-clasped,  for  the  mountains. 

Justice-of-the-peace  Benaja  Widdup  sat  in  his  door 
and  took  off  his  shoes.  Once  again  he  fingered  the  bill 
tucked  down  in  his  vest  pocket.  Once  again  he  smoked 
his  elder-stem  pipe.  Once  again  the  speckled  hen  swag 
gered  down  the  main  street  of  the  "settlement,"  cackling 
foolishly. 


XIII 
A  SACRIFICE  HIT 

1  HE  editor  of  the  Hearthstone  Maga^tn**  LJ*»  hi 
ideas  about  the  selection  of  manuscript  tor  his  publication. 
His  theory  is  no  seeret;  in  fact,  he  will  expound  it  to  you 
willingly  sitting  at  his  mahogany  desk,  smiling  benignantly 
and  tapping  his  knee  gently  with  hid  gold-rimmed  eye 
glasses. 

"The  Hearthstone,"  he  will  say,  ''does  noc  employ  a 
staff  of  readers.  We  obtain  opinions  of  the  manuscripts 
submitted  to  us  directly  from  types  of  the  various  classes 
of  our  readers." 

That  is  the  editor's  theory;  and  this  is  the  way  he  carries 
it  out: 

When  a  batch  of  MSS.  is  received  the  editor  stuffs 
every  one  of  his  pockets  full  of  them  and  distributes 
them  as  he  goes  about  during  the  day.  The  office 
employees,  the  hall  porter,  the  janitor,  the  elevator  man, 
messenger  boys,  the  waiters  at  the  cafe  where  the  editor 
has  luncheon,  the  man  at  the  news-stand  where  he  buys 
his  evening  paper,  the  grocer  and  milkman,  the  guard 
On  the  5.30  uptown  elevated  train,  the  ticket-chopper  at 
Sixty  — th  street,  the  cook  and  maid  at  his  home  — 
these  are  the  readers  who  pass  upon  MSS.  sent  in  to  the 

152 


A  Sacrifice  Hit  153 

Hearthstone  Magazine.  If  his  pockets  are  not  entirely 
emptied  by  the  time  he  reaches  the  bosom  of  his  family 
the  remaining  ones  are  handed  over  to  his  wife  to  read 
nfter  the  baby  goes  to  sleep.  A  few  days  later  the  editor 
gathers  in  the  MSS.  during  his  regular  rounds  and  con 
siders  the  verdict  of  his  assorted  readers. 

This  system  of  making  up  a  magazine  has  been  very 
successful;  and  the  circulation,  paced  by  the  advertising 
rates,  is  making  a  wonderful  record  of  speed. 

The  Hearthstone  Company  also  publishes  books,  and 
its  imprint  is  to  be  found  on  several  successful  works 
—  all  recommended,  says  the  editor,  by  the  Hearthstone's 
army  of  volunteer  readers.  Now  and  then  (according  to 
talkative  members  of  the  editorial  staff)  the  Hearthstone 
has  allowed  manuscripts  to  slip  through  its  fingers  on  the 
advice  of  its  heterogeneous  readers,  that  afterward  proved 
to  be  famous  sellers  when  brought  out  by  other  houses. 

For  instance  (the  gossips  say),  "The  Rise  and  Fall 
of  Silas  Latham"  was  unfavourably  passed  upon  by  the 
elevator-man;  the  office-boy  unanimously  rejected  "The 
Boss";  "In  the  Bishop's  Carriage"  was  contemptuously 
looked  upon  by  the  street-car  conductor;  "The  Deliver 
ance"  was  turned  down  by  a  clerk  in  the  subscription 
department  whose  wife's  mother  had  just  begun  a  two- 
months'  visit  at  his  home;  "The  Queen's  Quair"  came 
back  from  the  janitor  with  the  comment:  "So  is  the  book." 

But  nevertheless  the  Hearthstone  adheres  to  its  theory 
and  system,  and  it  will  never  lack  volunteer  readers; 
for  each  one  of  the  widely  scattered  staff,  from  the  young 


154  Whirligigs 

lady  stenographer  in  the  editorial  office  to  the  man  who 
shovels  in  coal  (whose  adverse  decision  lost  to  the  Hearth 
stone  Company  the  manuscript  of  "The  Under  World"), 
has  expectations  of  becoming  editor  of  the  magazine  some 
day. 

This  method  of  the  Hearthstone  was  well  known  to 
Allen  Slayton  when  he  wrote  his  novelette  entitled  "Love 
Is  All."  Slayton  had  hung  about  the  editorial  offices 
of  all  the  magazines  so  persistently  that  he  was  acquainted 
with  the  inner  workings  of  every  one  in  Gotham. 

He  knew  not  only  that  the  editor  of  the  Hearthstone 
handed  his  MSS.  around  among  different  types  of  people 
for  reading,  but  that  the  stories  of  sentimental  love- 
interest  went  to  Miss  Puffkin,  the  editor's  stenographer. 
Another  of  the  editor's  peculiar  customs  was  to  conceal 
invariably  the  name  of  the  writer  from  his  readers  of 
MSS.  so  that  a  glittering  name  might  not  influence  the 
sincerity  of  their  reports. 

Slayton  made  "Love  Is  All"  the  effort  of  his  life.  He 
gave  it  six  months  of  the  best  work  of  his  heart  and 
brain.  It  was  a  pure  love-story,  fine,  elevated,  romantic, 
passionate  —  a  prose  poem  that  set  the  divine  blessing 
of  love  (I  am  transposing  from  the  manuscript)  high 
above  all  earthly  gifts  and  honours,  and  listed  it  in  the 
catalogue  of  heaven's  choicest  rewards.  Slay  ton's  literary 
ambition  was  intense.  He  would  have  sacrificed  all 
other  worldly  possessions  to  have  gained  fame  in  his 
chosen  art.  He  would  almost  have  cut  off  his  right 
hand,  or  have  offered  himself  to  the  knife  of  the  appendi- 


A  Sacrifice  Hit  155 

citis  fancier  to  have  realized  his  dream  of  seeing  one  of 
his  efforts  published  in  the  Hearthstone. 

Slayton  finished  "Love  Is  All,"  and  took  it  to  the 
Hearthstone  in  person.  The  office  of  the  magazine  was 
in  a  large,  conglomerate  building,  presided  under  by  a 
janitor. 

As  the  writer  stepped  inside  the  door  on  his  way  to 
the  elevator  a  potato  masher  flew  through  the  hall,  wreck 
ing  Slayton's  hat,  and  smashing  the  glass  of  the  door. 
Closely  following  in  the  wake  of  the  utensil  flew  the 
janitor,  a  bulky,  unwholesome  man,  suspenderless  and 
sordid,  panic-stricken  and  breathless.  A  frowsy,  fat 
woman  with  flying  hair  followed  the  missile.  The 
janitor's  foot  slipped  on  the  tiled  floor,  he  fell  in  a  heap 
with  an  exclamation  of  despair.  The  woman  pounced  upon 
him  and  seized  his  hair.  The  man  bellowed  lustily. 

Her  vengeance  wreaked,  the  virago  rose  and  stalked, 
triumphant  as  Minerva,  back  to  some  cryptic  domestic 
retreat  at  the  rear.  The  janitor  got  to  his  feet,  blown 
and  humiliated. 

"This  is  married  life,"  he  said  to  Slayton,  with  a  certain 
bruised  humour.  "That's  the  girl  I  used  to  lay  awake 
of  nights  thinking  about.  Sorry  about  your  hat,  mister. 
Say,  don't  snitch  to  the  tenants  about  this,  will  yer? 
I  don't  want  to  lose  me  job." 

Slayton  took  the  elevator  at  the  end  of  the  hall  and 
went  up  to  the  offices  of  the  Hearthstone.  He  left  the 
MS.  of  "  Love  Is  All "  with  the  editor,  who  agreed  to  give 
him  an  answer  as  to  its  availability  at  the  end  of  a  week. 


15  G  Whirligigs 

Slayton  formulated  his  great  winning  scheme  on  his 
way  down.  It  struck  him  with  one  brilliant  flash,  and 
he  could  not  refrain  from  admiring  his  own  genius  in 
conceiving  the  idea.  That  very  night  he  set  about  carry 
ing  it  into  execution. 

Miss  PufTkin,  the  Hearthstone  stenographer,  boarded 
in  the  same  house  with  the  author.  She  was  an  oldish, 
thin,  exclusive,  languishing,  sentimental  maid;  and 
Slayton  had  been  introduced  to  her  some  time  before. 

The  writer's  daring  and  self-sacrificing  project  was 
this:  He  knew  that  the  editor  of  the  Hearthstone  relied 
strongly  upon  Miss  Puff  kin's  judgment  in  the  manuscript 
of  romantic  and  sentimental  fiction.  Her  taste  represented 
the  immense  average  of  mediocre  women  who  devour 
novels  and  stories  of  that  type.  The  central  idea  and 
keynote  of  "  Love  Is  All "  was  love  at  first  sight  —  the 
enrapturing,  irresistible,  soul-thrilling  feeling  that  com 
pels  a  man  or  a  woman  to  recognize  his  or  her  spirit-mate 
as  soon  as  heart  speaks  to  heart.  Suppose  he  should 
impress  this  divine  truth  upon  Miss  Pufi'kin  personally! 
-would  she  not  surely  indorse  her  new  and  rapturous 
sensations  by  recommending  highly  to  the  editor  of  the 
Hearthstone  the  novelette  "  Love  Is  All "  ? 

Slayton  thought  so.  And  that  night  he  took  Miss 
Puffkin  to  the  theatre.  The  next  night  he  made  vehement 
love  to  her  in  the  dim  parlour  of  the  boarding-house.  lie 
quoted  freely  from  "  Love  Is  All " ;  and  he  wound  up  with 
Miss  Puffkin's  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  visions  of  literary 
fame  dancing  in  his  head. 


A  Sacrifice  Hit  157 

But  Slayton  did  not  stop  at  love-making.  This,  he 
said  to  himself,  was  the  turning  point  of  his  life;  and,  like 
a  true  sportsman,  he  "went  the  limit."  On  Thursday 
night  he  and  Miss  Puffkin  walked  over  to  the  Big  Church 
in  the  Middle  of  the  Block  and  were  married. 

Brave  Slayton!  Chateaubriand  died  in  a  garret, 
Byron  courted  a  widow,  Keats  starved  to  death,  Poe 
mixed  his  drinks,  De  Quincey  hit  the  pipe,  Ade  lived  in 
Chicago,  James  kept  on  doing  it,  Dickens  wore  white 
socks,  De  Maupassant  wore  a  strait- jacket,  Tom  Watson 
became  a  Populist,  Jeremiah  wept,  all  these  authors  did 
these  things,  for  the  sake  of  literature,  but  thou  didst 
cap  them  all;  thou  marriedst  a  wife  for  to  carve  for  thyself 
a  niche  in  the  temple  of  fame! 

On  Friday  morning  Mrs.  Slayton  said  she  would  go 
over  to  the  Hearthstone  office,  hand  in  one  or  two  manu 
scripts  that  the  editor  had  given  to  her  to  read,  and  resign 
her  position  as  stenographer. 

"  Was  there  anything  —  er  —  that  —  er  —  you  particu 
larly  fancied  in  the  stories  you  are  going  to  turn  in  ? " 
asked  Slayton  with  a  thumping  heart. 

"  There  was  one  —  a  novelette,  that  I  liked  so  much," 
said  his  wife.  "I  haven't  read  anything  in  years  that 
I  thought  was  half  as  nice  and  true  to  life." 

That  afternoon  Slayton  hurried  down  to  the  Hearth 
stone  office.  He  felt  that  his  reward  was  close  at  hand. 
With  a  novelette  in  the  Hearthstone,  literary  reputation 
would  soon  be  his. 

The  office  boy  met  him  at  the  railing  in  the  outer 


158  Whirligigs 

office.     It    was    not    for    unsuccessful    authors    to    hold 
personal  colloquy  with  the  editor  except  at  rare  intervals. 

Slayton,  hugging  himself  internally,  was  nursing  in 
his  heart  the  exquisite  hope  of  being  able  to  crush  the 
office  boy  with  his  forthcoming  success. 

He  inquired  concerning  his  novelette.  The  office  boy 
went  into  the  sacred  precincts  and  brought  forth  a  large 
envelope,  thick  with  more  than  the  bulk  of  a  thousand 
checks. 

"  The  boss  told  me  to  tell  you  he's  sorry,"  said  the  boy," 
"but  your  manuscript  ain't  available  for  the  magazine." 

Slayton  stood,  dazed.  "  Can  you  tell  me,"  he  stammered, 
"  whether  or  no  Miss  Puff  —  that  is  my  —  I  mean  Miss 
Puffkin  —  handed  in  a  novelette  this  morning  that  she 
had  been  asked  to  read  ?  " 

"  Sure  she  did,"  answered  the  office  boy  wisely.  "  I 
heard  the  old  man  say  that  Miss  Puffkin  said  it  was  a 
daisy.  The  name  of  it  was,  'Married  for  the  Mazuma, 
or  a  Working  Girl's  Triumph.' 

"Say,  you?"  said  the  office  boy  confidentially,  "your 
name's  Slayton,  ain't  it?  I  guess  I  mixed  cases  on  you 
without  meanin'  to  do  it.  The  boss  give  me  some  manu 
script  to  hand  around  the  other  day  and  I  got  the  ones  for 
Miss  Puffkin  and  the  janitor  mixed.  I  guess  it's  all  right, 
though." 

And  then  Slayton  looked  closer  and  saw  on  the  cover 
of  his  manuscript,  under  the  title  "Love  Is  All,"  the 
janitor's  comment  scribbled  with  a  piece  of  charcoal: 

"The  — you  say!" 


XIV 
THE  ROADS  WE  TAKE 

TWENTY  miles  west  of  Tucson  the  "Sunset  Express" 
stopped  at  a  tank  to  take  on  water.  Besides  the  aqueous 
addition  the  engine  of  that  famous  flyer  acquired  some 
other  things  that  were  not  good  for  it. 

While  the  fireman  was  lowering  the  feeding  hose, 
Bob  Tidball,  "Shark"  Dodson  and  a  quarter-bred  Creek 
Indian  called  John  Big  Dog  climbed  on  the  engine  and 
showed  the  engineer  three  round  orifices  in  pieces  of 
ordnance  that  they  carried.  These  orifices  so  impressed 
the  engineer  with  their  possibilities  that  he  raised  both 
hands  in  a  gesture  such  as  accompanies  the  ejaculation 
"Do  tell!" 

At  the  crisp  command  of  Shark  Dodson,  who  was 
leader  of  the  attacking  force  the  engineer  descended 
to  the  ground  and  uncoupled  the  engine  and  tender. 
Then  John  Big  Dog,  perched  upon  the  coal,  sportively 
held  two  guns  upon  the  engine  driver  and  the  fireman, 
and  suggested  that  they  run  the  engine  fifty  yards  away 
and  there  await  further  orders. 

Shark  Dodson  and  Bob  Tidball,  scorning  to  put 
such  low-grade  ore  as  the  passengers  through  the  mill, 
struck  out  for  the  rich  pocket  of  the  express  car.  They 

159 


160  Whirligigs 

found  the  messenger  serene  in  the  belief  that  the  "Sunset 
Express"  was  taking  on  nothing  more  stimulating  and 
dangerous  than  aqua  pura.  While  Bob  was  knocking 
this  idea  out  of  his  head  with  the  butt-end  of  his  six-shooter 
Shark  Dodson  was  already  dosing  the  express-car 
safe  with  dynamite. 

The  safe  exploded  to  the  tune  of  $30,000,  all  gold  and 
currency.  The  passengers  thrust  their  heads  casually 
out  of  the  windows  to  look  for  the  thunder-cloud.  The 
conductor  jerked  at  the  bell-rope,  which  sagged  down 
loose  and  unresisting,  at  his  tug.  Shark  Dodson 
and  Bob  Tidball,  with  their  booty  in  a  stout  canvas  bag, 
tumbled  out  of  the  express  car  and  ran  awkwardly  in  their 
high-heeled  boots  to  the  engine. 

The  engineer,  sullenly  angry  but  wise,  ran  the  engine, 
according  to  orders,  rapidly  away  from  the  inert  train. 
But  before  this  was  accomplished  the  express  messenger, 
recovered  from  Bob  Tidball's  persuader  to  neutrality, 
jumped  out  of  his  car  with  a  Winchester  rifle  and  took 
a  trick  in  the  game.  Mr.  John  Big  Dog,  sitting  on  the 
coal  tender,  unwittingly  made  a  wrong  lead  by  giving  an 
imitation  of  a  target,  and  the  messenger  trumped  him. 
W7ith  a  ball  exactly  between  his  shoulder  blades  the 
Creek  chevalier  of  industry  rolled  off  to  the  ground, 
thus  increasing  the  share  of  his  comrades  in  the  loot  by 
one-sixth  each. 

Two  miles  from  the  tank  the  engineer  was  ordered 
to  stop. 

The  robbers  waved  a  defiant  adieu  and  plunged  down 


The  Roads  We  Take  161 

the  steep  slope  into  the  thick  woods  that  lined  the  track. 
Five  minutes  of  crashing  through  a  thicket  of  chapparal 
brought  them  to  open  woods,  where  three  horses  were 
tied  to  low-hanging  branches.  One  was  waiting  for  John 
Big  Dog,  who  would  never  ride  by  night  or  day  again. 
This  animal  the  robbers  divested  of  saddle  and  bridle 
and  set  free.  They  mounted  the  other  two  with  the 
bag  across  one  pommel,  and  rode  fast  and  with  discre 
tion  through  the  forest  and  up  a  primeval,  lonely  gorge. 
Here  the  animal  that  bore  Bob  Tidball  slipped  on  a  mossy 
boulder  and  broke  a  foreleg.  They  shot  him  through 
the  head  at  once  and  sat  down  to  hold  a  council  of  flight. 
Made  secure  for  the  present  by  the  tortuous  trail  they 
had  travelled,  the  question  of  time  was  no  longer  so  big. 
Many  miles  and  hours  lay  between  them  and  the  spryest 
posse  that  could  follow.  Shark  Dodson's  horse,  with 
trailing  rope  and  dropped  bridle,  panted  and  cropped 
thankfully  of  the  grass  along  the  stream  in  the  gorge. 
Bob  Tidball  opened  the  sack,  drew  out  double  handfuls 
of  the  neat  packages  of  currency  and  the  one  sack  of 
gold  and  chuckled  with  the  glee  of  a  child. 

"Say,  you  old  double-decked  pirate,"  he  called  joyfully 
to  Dodson,  "you  said  we  could  do  it  —  you  got  a  head  for 
financing  that  knocks  the  horns  off  of  anything  in  Arizona." 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  a  hoss  for  you,  Bob  ? 
We  ain't  got  long  to  wait  here.  They'll  be  on  our  trail 
before  daylight  in  the  mornin'." 

"Oh,  I  guess  that  cayuse  of  yourn'll  carry  double  for 
a  while,"  answered  the  sanguine  Bob.  "We'll  annex 


162  Whirligigs 

the  first  animal  we  come  across.  By  jingoes,  we  made  a 
haul,  didn't  we  ?  Accordin'  to  the  marks  on  this  money 
there's  $30,000  —  $15,000  apiece!" 

"It's  short  of  what  I  expected,"  said  Shark  Dodson, 
kicking  softly  at  the  packages  with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 
And  then  he  looked  pensively  at  the  wet  sides  of  his  tired 
horse. 

"Old  Bolivar's  mighty  nigh  played  out,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "I  wish  that  sorrel  of  yours  hadn't  got  hurt." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Bob,  heartily,  "but  it  can't  be  helped. 
Bolivar's  got  plenty  of  bottom  —  he'll  get  us  both  far 
enough  to  get  fresh  mounts.  Dang  it,  Shark,  I  can't 
help  thinkin'  how  funny  it  is  that  an  Easterner  like  you 
can  come  out  here  and  give  us  Western  fellows  cards 
and  spades  in  the  desperado  business.  What  part  of  the 
East  was  you  from,  anyway?" 

"New  York  State,"  said  Shark  Dodson,  sitting 
down  on  a  boulder  and  chewing  a  twig.  "I  was  born 
on  a  farm  in  Ulster  County.  I  ran  away  from  home 
when  I  was  seventeen.  It  was  an  accident  my  comin' 
West.  I  wras  walkin'  along  the  road  with  my  clothes  in 
a  bundle,  makin'  for  New  York  City.  I  had  an  idea  of 
goin'  there  and  makin'  lots  of  money.  I  always  felt  like 
I  could  do  it.  I  came  to  a  place  one  evenin'  where  the 
road  forked  and  I  didn't  know  which  fork  to  take.  I 
studied  about  it  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  I  took  the  left- 
hand.  That  night  I  run  into  the  camp  of  a  Wild  West 
show  that  was  travellin'  among  the  little  towns,  and 
I  went  West  with  it.  I've  often  wondered  if  I 


The  Roads  We  Take  163 

wouldn't  have  turned  out  different  if  I'd  took  the  other 
road." 

"Oh,  I  reckon  you'd  have  ended  up  about  the  same," 
said  Bob  Tidball,  cheerfully  philosophical.  "It  ain't 
the  roads  we  take;  it's  what's  inside  of  us  that  makes  us 
turn  out  the  way  we  do." 

Shark  Dodson  got  up   and   leaned     against    a    tree. 

"I'd  a  good  deal  rather  that  sorrel  of  yourn  hadn't 
hurt  himself,  Bob,"  he  said  again,  almost  pathetically. 

"Same  here,"  agreed  Bob;  "he  was  sure  a  first-rate 
kind  of  a  crowbait.  But  Bolivar,  he'll  pull  us  through 
all  right.  Reckon  we'd  better  be  movin'  on,  hadn't 
we,  Shark?  I'll  bag  this  boodle  ag'in  and  we'll  hit  the 
trail  for  higher  timber." 

Bob  Tidball  replaced  the  spoil  in  the  bag  and  tied  the 
mouth  of  it  tightly  with  a  cord.  When  he  looked  up  the 
most  prominent  object  that  he  saw  was  the  muzzle  of 
Shark  Dodson's  .45  held  upon  him  without  a  waver. 

"Stop  your  funnin',"  said  Bob,  with  a  grin.  "We  got 
to  be  hittin'  the  breeze." 

"Set  still,"  said  Shark.  "You  ain't  goin'  to  hit 
no  breeze,  Bob.  I  hate  to  tell  you,  but  there  ain't  any 
chance  for  but  one  of  us.  Bolivar,  he's  plenty  tired, 
and  he  can't  carry  double." 

"We  been  pards,  me  and  you,  Shark  Dodson,  for  three 
year,"  Bob  said  quietly.  "We've  risked  our  lives  together 
time  and  again.  I've  always  give  you  a  square  deal, 
and  I  thought  you  was  a  man.  I've  heard  some  queer 
stories  about  you  shootin'  one  or  two  men  in  a  peculiar 


164  Whirligigs 

way,  but  I  never  believed  'em.  Now  if  you're  just  liavin' 
a  little  fun  with  me,  Shark,  put  your  gun  up,  and  we'll 
get  on  Bolivar  and  vamose.  If  you  mean  to  shoot  — 
shoot,  you  blackhearted  son  of  a  tarantula!" 

Shark   Dodson's  face   bore  a  deeply  sorrowful   look. 

"You  don't  know  how  bad  I  feel,"  he  sighed,  "about 
that  sorrel  of  yourn  breakin'  his  leg,  Bob." 

The  expression  on  Dodson's  face  changed  in  an  instant 
to  one  of  cold  ferocity  mingled  with  inexorable  cupidity. 
The  soul  of  the  man  showed  itself  for  a  moment  like  an 
evil  face  in  the  window  of  a  reputable  house. 

Truly  Bob  Tidball  was  never  to  "hit  the  breeze"  again. 
The  deadly  .45  of  the  false  friend  cracked  and  filled  the 
gorge  with  a  roar  that  the  walls  hurled  back  with  indignant 
echoes.  And  Bolivar,  unconscious  accomplice,  swiftly 
bore  away  the  last  of  the  holders-up  of  the  "Sunset 
Express,"  not  put  to  the  stress  of  "carrying  double." 

But  as  "Shark"  Dodson  galloped  away  the  woods 
seemed  to  fade  from  his  view;  the  revolver  in  his  right  hand 
turned  to  the  curved  arm  of  a  mahogany  chair;  his  saddle 
was  strangely  upholstered,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
saw  his  feet,  not  in  stirrups,  but  resting  quietly  on  the  edge 
of  a  quartered-oak  desk. 

I  am  telling  you  that  Dodson,  of  the  firm  of  Dodson 
&  Decker,  Wall  Street  brokers,  opened  his  eyes.  Peabody, 
the  confidential  clerk,  was  standing  by  his  chair,  hesitating 
to  speak.  There  was  a  confused  hum  of  wheels  below,  and 
the  sedative  buzz  of  an  electric  fan. 


The  Roads  We  Take  165 

"Ahem!  Peabody,"  said  Dodson,  blinking.  "I  must 
have  fallen  asleep.  I  had  a  most  remarkable  dream. 
What  is  it,  Peabody?" 

"Mr.  Williams,  sir,  of  Tracy  &  Williams,  is  outside. 
He  has  come  to  settle  his  deal  in  X.  Y.  Z.  The  market 
caught  him  short,  sir,  if  you  remember." 

"Yes,  I  remember.  What  is  X.  Y.  Z.  quoted  at  to-day, 
Peabody?" 

"One  eighty-five,  sir." 

"Then  that's  his  price." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Peabody,  rather  nervously,  "for 
speaking  of  it,  but  I've  been  talking  to  Williams.  He's 
an  old  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Dodson,  and  you  practically 
have  a  corner  in  X.  Y.  Z.  I  thought  you  might  —  that  is, 
I  thought  you  might  not  remember  that  he  sold  you 
the  stock  at  98.  If  he  settles  at  the  market  price  it  will 
take  every  cent  he  has  in  the  world  and  his  home  too  to 
deliver  the  shares." 

The  expression  on  Dodson's  face  changed  in  an  instant 
to  one  of  cold  ferocity  mingled  with  inexorable  cupidity. 
The  soul  of  the  man  showed  itself  for  a  moment  like  an 
evil  face  in  the  window  of  a  reputable  house. 

"He  will  settle  at  one  eighty-five,"  said  Dodson. 
"Bolivar  cannot  carry  double." 


XV 
A  BLACKJACK  BARGAINER 

1  HE  most  disreputable  thing  in  Yancey  Goree's  law 
office  was  Goree  himself,  sprawled  in  his  creaky  old  arm 
chair.  The  rickety  little  office,  built  of  red  brick,  was 
set  flush  with  the  street  —  the  main  street  of  the  town  of 
Bethel. 

Bethel  rested  upon  the  foot-hills  of  the  Blue  Ridge. 
Above  it  the  mountains  were  piled  to  the  sky.  Far 
below  it  the  turbid  Catawba  gleamed  yellow  along  its 
disconsolate  valley. 

The  June  day  was  at  its  sultriest  hour.  Bethel  dozed 
in  the  tepid  shade.  Trade  was  not.  It  was  so  still  that 
Goree,  reclining  in  his  chair,  distinctly  heard  the  clicking 
of  the  chips  in  the  grand-jury  room,  where  the  "court 
house  gang"  was  playing  poker.  From  the  open  back 
door  of  the  office  a  well-worn  path  meandered  across  the 
grassy  lot  to  the  court-house.  The  treading  out  of  that 
path  had  cost  Goree  all  he  ever  had  —  first  inheritance 
of  a  few  thousand  dollars,  next  the  old  family  home,  and, 
latterly  the  last  shreds  of  his  self-respect  and  manhood. 
The  "gang"  had  cleaned  him  out.  The  broken  gambler 
had  turned  drunkard  and  parasite;  he  had  lived  to  see 
this  day  come  when  the  men  who  had  stripped  him 

166 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  167 

denied  him  a  seat  at  the  game.  His  word  was  no  longer 
to  be  taken.  The  daily  bouts  at  cards  had  arranged  itself 
accordingly,  and  to  him  was  assigned  the  ignoble  part  of 
the  onlooker.  The  sheriff,  the  county  clerk,  a  sportive 
deputy,  a  gay  attorney,  and  a  chalk-faced  man  hailing 
"from  the  valley,"  sat  at  table,  and  the  sheared  one 
was  thus  tacitly  advised  to  go  and  grow  more  wool. 

Soon  wearying  of  his  ostracism,  Goree  had  departed 
for  his  office,  muttering  to  himself  as  he  unsteadily  tra 
versed  the  unlucky  pathway.  After  a  drink  of  corn 
whiskey  from  a  demijohn  under  the  table,  he  had  flung 
himself  into  the  chair,  staring,  in  a  sort  of  maudlin  apathy, 
out  at  the  mountains  immersed  in  the  summer  haze. 
The  little  white  patch  he  saw  away  up  on  the  side  of 
Blackjack  was  Laurel,  the  village  near  which  he  had  been 
born  and  bred.  There,  also,  was  the  birthplace  of  the 
feud  between  the  Gorees  and  the  Coltranes.  Now  no 
direct  heir  of  the  Gorees  survived  except  this  plucked 
and  singed  bird  of  misfortune.  To  the  Coltranes,  also, 
but  one  male  supporter  was  left  —  Colonel  Abner  Col- 
trane,  a  man  of  substance  and  standing,  a  member  of  the 
State  Legislature,  and  a  contemporary  with  Goree's 
father.  The  feud  had  been  a  typical  one  of  the  region; 
it  had  left  a  red  record  of  hate,  wrong  and  slaughter. 

But  Yancey  Goree  was  not  thinking  of  feuds.  His 
befuddled  brain  was  hopelessly  attacking  the  problem 
of  the  future  maintenance  of  himself  and  his  favourite 
follies.  Of  late,  old  friends  of  the  family  had  seen  to  it 
that  he  had  whereof  to  eat  and  a  place  to  sleep,  but  whiskey 


168  Whirligigs 

they  would  not  buy  for  him,  and  he  must  have  whiskey. 
His  law  business  was  extinct;  no  case  had  been  intrusted 
to  him  in  two  years.  He  had  been  a  borrower  and  a 
sponge,  and  it  seemed  that  if  he  fell  no  lower  it  would  be 
from  lack  of  opportunity.  One  more  chance  —  he  was 
saying  to  himself  —  if  he  had  one  more  stake  at  the  game, 
he  thought  he  could  win;  but  he  had  nothing  left  to  sell, 
and  his  credit  was  more  than  exhausted. 

He  could  not  help  smiling,  even  in  his  misery,  as  he 
thought  of  the  man  to  whom,  six  months  before,  he  had 
sold  the  old  Goree  homestead.  There  had  come  from 
"back  yan'"  in  the  mountains  two  of  the  strangest 
creatures,  a  man  named  Pike  Garvey  and  his  wife.  "  Back 
yan',"  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  toward  the  hills,  was 
understood  among  the  mountaineers  to  designate  the 
remotest  fastnesses,  the  unplumbed  gorges,  the  haunts  of 
lawbreakers,  the  wolf's  den,  and  the  boudoir  of  the  bear. 
In  the  cabin  far  up  on  Blackjack's  shoulder,  in  the  wildest 
part  of  these  retreats,  this  odd  couple  had  lived  for  twenty 
years.  They  had  neither  dog  nor  children  to  mitigate 
the  heavy  silence  of  the  hills.  Pike  Garvey  was  little 
known  in  the  settlements,  but  all  who  had  dealt  with  him 
pronounced  him  "crazy  as  a  loon."  He  acknowledged 
no  occupation  save  that  of  a  squirrel  hunter,  but  he 
"moonshined"  occasionally  by  way  of  diversion.  Once 
the  "revenues"  had  dragged  him  from  his  lair,  fighting 
silently  and  desperately  like  a  terrier,  and  he  had  been 
sent  to  state's  prison  for  two  years.  Released,  he  popped 
back  into  his  hole  like  an  angrv  weasel. 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  169 

Fortune,  passing  over  many  anxious  wooers,  made  a 
freakish  flight  into  Blackjack's  bosky  pockets  to  smile 
upon  Pike  and  his  faithful  partner. 

One  day  a  party  of  spectacled,  knickerbockered,  and 
altogether  absurd  prospectors  invaded  the  vicinity  of 
the  Garvey's  cabin.  Pike  lifted  his  squirrel  rifle  off  the 
hooks  and  took  a  shot  at  them  at  long  range  on  the  chance 
of  their  being  revenues.  Happily  he  missed,  and  the 
unconscious  agents  of  good  luck  drew  nearer,  disclosing 
their  innocence  of  anything  resembling  law  or  justice. 
Later  on,  they  offered  the  Garveys  an  enormous  quantity 
of  ready,  green,  crisp  money  for  their  thirty-acre  patch 
of  cleared  land,  mentioning,  as  an  excuse  for  such  a  mad 
action,  some  irrelevant  and  inadequate  nonsense  about 
a  bed  of  mica  underlying  the  said  property. 

When  the  Garveys  became  possessed  of  so  many  dol 
lars  that  they  faltered  in  computing  them,  the  deficiencies 
of  life  on  Blackjack  began  to  grow  prominent.  Pike 
began  to  talk  of  new  shoes,  a  hogshead  of  tobacco  to 
set  in  the  corner,  a  new  lock  to  his  rifle;  and,  leading 
Martella  to  a  certain  spot  on  the  mountain-side,  he 
pointed  out  to  her  how  a  small  cannon  —  doubtless  a 
thing  not  beyond  the  scope  of  their  fortune  in  price  — 
might  be  planted  so  as  to  command  and  defend  the  sole 
accessible  trail  to  the  cabin,  to  the  confusion  of  revenues 
and  meddling  strangers  forever. 

But  Adam  reckoned  without  his  Eve.  These  things 
represented  to  him  the  applied  power  of  wealth,  but 
there  slumbered  in  his  dingy  cabin  an  ambition  that 


170  Whirligigs 

soared  far  above  his  primitive  wants.  Somewhere  in 
Mrs.  Garvey's  bosom  still  survived  a  spot  of  femininity 
unstarved  by  twenty  years  of  Blackjack.  For  so  long 
a  time  the  sounds  in  her  ears  had  been  the  scaly-barks 
dropping  in  the  woods  at  noon,  and  the  wolves  singing 
among  the  rocks  at  night,  and  it  was  enough  to  have 
purged  her  of  vanities.  She  had  grown  fat  and  sad  and 
yellow  and  dull.  But  when  the  means  came,  she  felt  a 
rekindled  desire  to  assume  the  perquisites  of  her  sex  — 
to  sit  at  tea  tables;  to  buy  inutile  things;  to  whitewash 
the  hideous  veracity  of  life  with  a  little  form  and  ceremony. 
So  she  coldly  vetoed  Pike's  proposed  system  of  fortifica 
tions,  and  announced  that  they  would  descend  upon  the 
world,  and  gyrate  socially. 

And  thus,  at  length,  it  was  decided,  and  the  thing 
done.  The  village  of  Laurel  was  their  compromise 
between  Mrs.  Garvey's  preference  for  one  of  the  large 
valley  towns  and  Pike's  hankering  for  primeval  solitudes. 
Laurel  yielded  a  halting  round  of  feeble  social  distractions 
comportable  with  Martella's  ambitions,  and  was  not 
entirely  without  recommendation  to  Pike,  its  contiguity 
to  the  mountains  presenting  advantages  for  sudden  retreat 
in  case  fashionable  society  should  make  it  advisable. 

Their  descent  upon  Laurel  had  been  coincident  with 
Yancey  Goree's  feverish  desire  to  convert  property  into 
cash,  and  they  bought  the  old  Goree  homestead,  paying 
four  thousand  dollars  ready  money  into  the  spendthrift's 
shaking  hands. 

Thus  it  happened  that  while  the  disreputable  last  of 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  171 

tlie  Gorees  sprawled  in  his  disreputable  office,  at  the  end 
of  his  row,  spurned  by  the  cronies  whom  he  had  gorged, 
strangers  dwelt  in  the  halls  of  his  fathers. 

A  cloud  of  dust  was  rolling  slowly  up  the  parched 
street,  with  something  travelling  in  the  midst  of  it.  A 
little  breeze  wafted  the  cloud  to  one  side,  and  a  new, 
brightly  painted  carryall,  drawn  by  a  slothful  gray  horse, 
became  visible.  The  vehicle  deflected  from  the  middle 
of  the  street  as  it  neared  Goree's  office,  and  stopped  in  the 
gutter  directly  in  front  of  his  door. 

On  the  front  seat  sat  a  gaunt,  tall  man,  dressed  in 
black  broadcloth,  his  rigid  hands  incarcerated  in  yellow 
kid  gloves.  On  the  back  seat  was  a  lady  who  triumphed 
over  the  June  heat.  Her  stout  form  was  armoured  in  a 
skin-tight  silk  dress  of  the  description  known  as  "change 
able,"  being  a  gorgeous  combination  of  shifting  hues. 
She  sat  erect,  waving  a  much-ornamented  fan,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  stonily  far  down  the  street.  However  Martella 
Garvey's  heart  might  be  rejoicing  at  the  pleasures  of  her 
new  life,  Blackjack  had  done  his  work  writh  her  exterior. 
He  had  carved  her  countenance  to  the  image  of  emptiness 
and  inanity;  had  imbued  her  with  the  stolidity  of  his 
crags,  and  the  reserve  of  his  hushed  interiors.  She  always 
seemed  to  hear,  whatever  her  surroundings  were,  the 
scaly-barks  falling  and  pattering  down  the  mountain 
side.  She  could  always  hear  the  awful  silence  of  Black 
jack  sounding  through  the  stillest  of  nights. 

Goree  watched  this  solemn  equipage,  as  it  drove  to 
his  door,  with  only  faint  interest;  but  when  the  lank 


Whirligigs 

driver  wrapped  the  reins  about  his  whip,  awkwardly 
descended,  and  stepped  into  the  office,  he  rose  unsteadily 
to  receive  him,  recognizing  Pike  Garvey,  the  new,  the 
transformed,  the  recently  civilized. 

The  mountaineer  took  the  chair  Goree  offered  him. 
They  who  cast  doubts  upon  Garvey's  soundness  of  mind 
had  a  strong  witness  in  the  man's  countenance.  His  face 
was  too  long,  a  dull  saffron  in  hue,  and  immobile  as  a 
statue's.  Pale-blue,  unwinking  round  eyes  without 
lashes  added  to  the  singularity  of  his  gruesome  visage. 
Goree  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  visit. 

"  Everything  all  right  at  Laurel,  Mr.  Garvey  ? "  he 
,  inquired. 

"Everything  all  right,  sir,  and  mighty  pleased  is  Missis 
Garvey  and  me  with  the  property.  Missis  Garvey  likes 
yo'  old  place,  and  she  likes  the  neighbourhood.  Society 
is  what  she  'lows  she  wants,  and  she  is  gettin'  of  it.  The 
Rogerses,  the  Hapgoods,  the  Pratts,  and  the  Troys  hev 
been  to  see  Missis  Garvey,  and  she  hev  et  meals  to  most 
of  thar  houses.  The  best  folks  hev  axed  her  to  differ'nt 
kinds  of  doin's.  I  cyan't  say,  Mr.  Goree,  that  sech 
things  suits  me  — fur  me,  give  me  them  thar."  Garvey's 
huge,  yellow-gloved  hand  flourished  in  the  direction  of 
the  mountains.  "That's  whar  I  b'long,  'mongst  the 
wild  honey  bees  and  the  b'ars.  But  that  ain't  what  I 
come  fur  to  say,  Mr.  Goree.  Thar's  somethin'  you  got 
what  me  and  Missis  Garvey  wants  to  buy." 

"Buy!"  echoed  Goree.  "From  meP"  Then  he 
laughed  harshly.  "I  reckon  you  are  mistaken  about 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  173 

that.  I  reckon  you  are  mistaken  about  that.  I  sold  out 
to  you,  as  you  yourself  expressed  it,  'lock,  stock  and 
barrel.'  There  isn't  even  a  ramrod  left  to  sell." 

"You've  got  it;  and  we  'uns  want  it.  'Take  the 
money/  says  Missis  Garvey,  'and  buy  it  fa'r  and 
squar'.'" 

Goree  shook  his  head.  "The  cupboard's  bare,"  he 
said. 

"We've  riz,"  pursued  the  mountaineer,  undeflected 
from  his  object,  "a  heap.  We  was  pore  as  possums, 
and  now  we  could  hev  folks  to  dinner  every  day.  We 
been  reco'nized,  Missis  Garvey  says,  by  the  best  society. 
But  there's  somethin'  we  need  we  ain't  got.  She  says 
it  ought  to  been  put  in  the  'ventory  ov  the  sale,  but  it 
tain't  thar.  'Take  the  money,  then,'  says  she,  'and  buy 
it  fa'r  and  squar'.'" 

"Out  with  it,"  said  Goree,  his  racked  nerves  growing 
impatient. 

Garvey  threw  his  slouch  hat  upon  the  table,  and  leaned 
forward,  fixing  his  unblinking  eyes  upon  Goree's. 

"There's  a  old  feud,"  he  said  distinctly  and  slowly, 
"  'tween  you  'uns  and  the  Coltranes." 

Goree  frowned  ominously.  To  speak  of  his  feud  to 
a  feudist  is  a  serious  breach  of  the  mountain  etiquette. 
The  man  from  "back  yan'"  knew  it  as  well  as  the  lawyer 
did. 

"Na  offense,"  he  went  on,  "but  purely  in  the  way  of 
business.  Missis  Garvey  hev  studied  all  about  feuds. 
Most  of  the  quality  folks  in  the  mountains  hev  'em.  The 


174  Whirligigs 

Settles  and  the  Goforths,  the  Rankins  and  the  Boyds,  the 
Silers  and  the  Galloways,  hev  all  been  cyarin'  on  feuds 
f'om  twenty  to  a  hundred  year.  The  last  man  to  drap 
was  when  yo'  uncle,  Jedge  Paisley  Goree,  'journed  co't 
and  shot  Len  Coltrane  f'om  the  bench.  Missis  Garvey 
and  me,  we  come  f'om  the  po'  white  trash.  Nobody 
wouldn't  pick  a  feud  with  we  'uns,  no  mo'n  with  a  fam'ly 
of  tree-toads.  Quality  people  everywhar,  says  Missis 
Garvey,  has  feuds.  We  'uns  ain't  quality,  but  we're 
buyin'  into  it  as  fur  as  we  can.  'Take  the  money,  then,' 
says  Missis  Garvey,  'and  buy  Mr.  Goree's  feud,  fa'r 
and  squar'."3 

The  squirrel  hunter  straightened  a  leg  half  across  the 
room,  drew  a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket,  and  threw  them 
on  the  table. 

"Thar's  two  hundred  dollars,  Mr.  Goree;  what  you 
would  call  a  fa'r  price  for  a  feud  that's  been  'lowed  to 
run  down  like  yourn  hev.  Thar's  only  you  left  to  cyar' 
on  yo'  side  of  it,  and  you'd  make  mighty  po'  killin'.  I'll 
take  it  off  yo'  hands,  and  it'll  set  me  and  Missis  Garvey 
up  among  the  quality.  Thar's  the  money." 

The  little  roll  of  currency  on  the  table  slowly  untwisted 
itself,  writhing  and  jumping  as  its  folds  relaxed.  In  the 
silence  that  followed  Garvey's  last  speech  the  rattling  of 
the  poker  chips  in  the  court-house  could  be  plainly  heard. 
Goree  knew  that  the  sheriff  had  just  won  a  pot,  for  the 
subdued  whoop  with  which  he  always  greeted  a  victory 
floated  across  the  square  upon  the  crinkly  heat  waves. 
Beads  of  moisture  stood  on  Goree's  brow.  Stooping,  he 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  175 

drew  the  wicker-covered  demijohn  from  under  the  table, 
and  filled  a  tumbler  from  it. 

"A  little  corn  liquor,  Mr.  Garvey?  Of  course  you 
are  joking  about  —  what  you  spoke  of  ?  Opens  quite  a 
new  market,  doesn't  it?  Feuds,  prime,  two-fifty  to 
three.  Feuds,  slightly  damaged  —  two  hundred,  I 
believe  you  said,  Mr.  Garvey?" 

Goree  laughed  self-consciously. 

The  mountaineer  took  the  glass  Goree  handed  him, 
and  drank  the  whisky  without  a  tremor  of  the  lids  of 
his  staring  eyes.  The  lawyer  applauded  the  feat  by  a 
look  of  envious  admiration.  He  poured  his  own  drink, 
and  took  it  like  a  drunkard,  by  gulps,  and  with  shudders 
at  the  smell  and  taste. 

"Two  hundred,"  repeated  Garvey.  "Thar's  the  money.'* 

A  sudden  passion  flared  up  in  Goree's  brain.  He 
struck  the  table  with  his  fist.  One  of  the  bills  flipped 
over  and  touched  his  hand.  He  flinched  as  if  something 
had  stung  him. 

"Do  you  come  to  me,"  he  shouted,  "seriously  with  such 
a  ridiculous,  insulting,  darned-fool  proposition?" 

"It's  fa'r  and  squar',"  said  the  squirrel  hunter,  but  he 
reached  out  his  hand  as  if  to  take  back  the  money;  and 
then  Goree  knew  that  his  own  flurry  of  rage  had  not  been 
from  pride  or  resentment,  but  from  anger  at  himself, 
knowing  that  he  would  set  foot  in  the  deeper  depths  that 
were  being  opened  to  him.  He  turned  in  an  instant  from 
an  outraged  gentleman  to  an  anxious  chafferer  recom 
mending  his  goods. 


176  Whirligigs 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Garvey,"  he  said,  his  face  crimson 
and  his  speech  thick.  "I  accept  your  p-p-p reposition, 
though  it's  dirt  cheap  at  two  hundred.  A  t-trade's  all 
right  when  both  p-purchaser  and  b-buyer  are  s-satisfied. 
Shall  I  w-wrap  it  up  for  you,  Mr.  Garvey  ?" 

Garvey  rose,  and  shook  out  his  broadcloth.  "Missis 
Garvey  will  be  pleased.  You  air  out  of  it,  and  it  stands 
Coltrane  and  Garvey.  Just  a  scrap  ov  writin',  Mr. 
Goree,  you  bein'  a  lawyer,  to  show  we  traded." 

Goree  seized  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pen.  The  money 
was  clutched  in  his  moist  hand.  Everything  else  sud 
denly  seemed  to  grow  trivial  and  light. 

"Bill  of  sale,  by  all  means.  'Right,  title,  and  interest 

in  and  to'  .  .  .  'forever  warrant  and No, 

Garvey,  we'll  have  to  leave  out  that  'defend,'"  said 
Goree  with  a  loud  laugh.  "You'll  have  to  defend  this 
title  yourself." 

The  mountaineer  received  the  amazing  screed  that  the 
lawyer  handed  him,  folded  it  with  immense  labour,  and 
placed  it  carefully  in  his  pocket. 

Goree  was  standing  near  the  window.  "Step  here," 
he  said,  raising  his  finger,  "and  I'll  show  you  your  recently 
purchased  enemy.  There  he  goes,  down  the  other  side 
of  the  street." 

The  mountaineer  crooked  his  long  frame  to  look 
through  the  window  in  the  direction  indicated  by  the  other. 
Colonel  Abner  Coltrane,  an  erect,  portly  gentleman  of 
about  fifty,  wearing  the  inevitable  long,  double-breasted 
frock  coat  of  the  Southern  lawmaker,  and  an  old  high 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  177 

silk  hat,  was  passing  on  the  opposite  sidewalk.  As 
Garvey  looked,  Goree  glanced  at  his  face.  If  there  be 
such  a  thing  as  a  yellow  wolf,  here  was  its  counterpart. 
Garvey  snarled  as  his  unhuman  eyes  followed  the  moving 
figure,  disclosing  long,  amber-coloured  fangs. 

"Is  that  him?  Why,  that's  the  man  who  sent  me  to 
the  pen'tentiary  once!" 

"He  used  to  be  district  attorney,"  said  Goree  care 
lessly.  "And,  by  the  way,  he's  a  first-class  shot." 

"I  kin  hit  a  squirrel's  eye  at  a  hundred  yard,"  said 
Garvey.  "So  that  thar's  Coltrane!  I  made  a  better 
trade  than  I  was  thinkin'.  I'll  take  keer  ov  this  feud, 
Mr.  Goree,  better'n  you  ever  did!" 

He  moved  toward  the  door,  but  lingered  there,  betray 
ing  a  slight  perplexity. 

"Anything  else  to-day?"  inquired  Goree  with  frothy 
sarcasm.  "Any  family  traditions,  ancestral  ghosts,  or 
skeletons  in  the  closet?  Prices  as  low  as  the  lowest." 

"Thar  was  another  thing,"  replied  the  unmoved  squirrel 
hunter,  "that  Missis  Garvey  was  thinkin'  of.  'Tain't 
so  much  in  my  line  as  t'other,  but  she  wanted  partic'lar 
that  I  should  inquire,  and  ef  you  was  willin',  'pay  fur  it,' 
she  says,  'fa'r  and  squar'.'  Thar's  a  buryin*  groun', 
as  you  know,  Mr.  Goree,  in  the  yard  of  yo'  eld  place, 
under  the  cedars.  Them  that  lies  thar  is  yo'  f»lks  what 
was  killed  by  the  Coltranes.  The  monymcnts  has  the 
names  on  'em.  Missis  Garvey  says  a  fasa'ly  buryin' 
groun'  is  a  sho'  sign  of  quality.  She  say*  ef  w«  git  the 
feud,  thar's  somethin'  else  ought  to  go  witJt  it.  The 


178  Whirligigs 

names  on  them  monyments  is  'Goree,'  but  they  can  be 
changed  to  ourn  by " 

"Go!  Go!"  screamed  Goree,  his  face  turning  purple. 
He  stretched  out  both  hands  toward  the  mountaineer, 
his  fingers  hooked  and  shaking.  "  Go,  you  ghoul !  Even  a 
Ch-Chinaman  protects  the  g-graves  of  his  ancestors — go!" 

The  squirrel  hunter  slouched  out  of  the  door  to  his 
carryall.  While  he  was  climbing  over  the  wheel  Goree 
was  collecting,  with  feverish  celerity,  the  money  that  had 
fallen  from  his  hand  to  the  floor.  As  the  vehicle  slowly 
turned  about,  the  sheep,  with  a  coat  of  newly  grown 
wool,  was  hurrying,  in  indecent  haste,  along  the  path  to 
the  court-house. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  they  brought  him  back 
to  his  office,  shorn  and  unconscious.  The  sheriff,  the 
sportive  deputy,  the  county  clerk,  and  the  gay  attorney 
carried  him,  the  chalk-faced  man  "from  the  valley" 
acting  as  escort. 

"On  the  table,"  said  one  of  them,  and  they  deposited 
him  there  among  the  litter  of  his  unprofitable  books  and 
papers. 

"Yance  thinks  a  lot  of  a  pair  of  deuces  when  he's 
liquored  up,"  sighed  the  sheriff  reflectively. 

"Too  much,"  said  the  gay  attorney.  "A  man  has  no 
business  to  play  poker  who  drinks  as  much  as  he  does.  I 
wonder  how  much  he  dropped  to-night." 

"Close  to  two  hundred.  What  I  wonder  is  whar  he 
got  it.  Yance  ain't  had  a  cent  fur  over  a  month,  I 
knoW 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  179 

"Struck  a  client,  maybe.  Well,  let's  get  home  before 
daylight.  He'll  be  all  right  when  he  wakes  up,  except 
for  a  sort  of  beehive  about  the  cranium." 

The  gang  slipped  away  through  the  early  morning 
twilight.  The  next  eye  to  gaze  upon  the  miserable  Goree 
was  the  orb  of  day.  He  peered  through  the  uncurtained 
window,  first  deluging  the  sleeper  in  a  flood  of  faint  gold, 
but  soon  pouring  upon  the  mottled  red  of  his  flesh  a 
searching,  white,  summer  heat.  Goree  stirred,  half 
unconsciously,  among  the  table's  debris,  and  turned  his 
face  from  the  window.  His  movement  dislodged  a  heavy 
law  book,  which  crashed  upon  the  floor.  Opening  his 
eyes,  he  saw,  bending  over  him,  a  man  in  a  black  frock 
coat.  Looking  higher,  he  discovered  a  well-worn  silk 
hat,  and  beneath  it  the  kindly,  smooth  face  of  Colonel 
Abner  Coltrane. 

A  little  uncertain  of  the  outcome,  the  colonel  waited  for 
the  other  to  make  some  sign  of  recognition.  Not  in 
twenty  years  had  male  members  of  these  two  families 
faced  each  other  in  peace.  Goree's  eyelids  puckered  as 
he  strained  his  blurred  sight  toward  this  visitor,  and  then 
he  smiled  serenely. 

"Have  you  brought  Stella  and  Lucy  over  to  play?" 
he  said  calmly. 

"Do  you  know  me,  Yancey  ?"   asked  Coltrane. 

"Of  course  I  do.  You  brought  me  a  whip  with  a 
whistle  in  the  end." 

So  he  had  —  twenty-four  years  ago;  when  Yancey 's 
father  was  his  best  friend. 


180  Whirligigs 

Goree's  eyes  wandered  about  the  room.  The  colonel 
understood.  "Lie  still,  and  I'll  bring  you  some,"  said  he. 
There  was  a  pump  in  the  yard  at  the  rear,  and  Goree 
closed  his  eyes,  listening  with  rapture  to  the  click  of  its 
handle,  and  the  bubbling  of  the  falling  stream.  Col- 
trane  brought  a  pitcher  of  the  cool  water,  and  held  it  for 
him  to  drink.  Presently  Goree  sat  up  —  a  most  forlorn 
object,  his  summer  suit  of  flax  soiled  and  crumpled,  his 
discreditable  head  tousled  and  unsteady.  He  tried  to 
wave  one  of  his  hands  toward  the  colonel. 

"Ex-excuse  —  everything,  will  you?"  he  said.  "I 
must  have  drunk  too  much  whiskey  last  night,  and  gone 
to  bed  on  the  table."  His  brows  knitted  into  a  puzzled 
frown. 

"  Out  with  the  boys  a  while  ? "  asked  Coltrane  kindly. 

"No,  I  went  nowhere.  I  haven't  had  a  dollar  to  spend 
in  the  last  two  months.  Struck  the  demijohn  too  often. 
I  reckon,  as  usual." 

Colonel  Coltrane  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"A  little  while  ago,  Yancey,"  he  began,  "you  asked 
me  if  I  had  brought  Stella  and  Lucy  over  to  play.  You 
weren't  quite  awake  then,  and  must  have  been  dreaming 
you  were  a  boy  again.  You  are  awake  now,  and  I  want 
you  to  listen  to  me.  I  have  come  from  Stella  and  Lucy 
to  their  old  playmate,  and  to  my  old  friend's  son.  They 
know  that  I  am  going  to  bring  you  home  with  me,  and  you 
will  find  them  as  ready  with  a  welcome  as  they  were  in 
the  old  days.  I  want  you  to  come  to  my  house  and  stay 
until  you  are  yourself  again,  and  as  much  longer  as  you 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  181 

will.  We  heard  of  your  being  down  in  the  world,  and  in 
the  midst  of  temptation,  and  we  agreed  that  you  should 
come  over  and  play  at  our  house  once  more.  Will  you 
come,  my  boy?  Will  you  drop  our  old  family  trouble 
and  come  with  me?" 

"Trouble!"  said  Goree,  opening  his  eyes  wide.  "There 
was  never  any  trouble  between  us  that  I  know  of.  I'm 
sure  we've  always  been  the  best  friends.  But,  good  Lord, 
Colonel,  how  could  I  go  to  your  home  as  I  am  —  a 
drunken  wretch,  a  miserable,  degraded  spendthrift  and 
gambler  — 

He  lurched  from  the  table  into  his  armchair,  and 
began  to  weep  maudlin  tears,  mingled  with  genuine  drops 
of  remorse  and  shame.  Coltrane  talked  to  him  persist 
ently  and  reasonably,  reminding  him  of  the  simple  moun 
tain  pleasures  of  which  he  had  once  been  so  fond,  and 
insisting  upon  the  genuineness  of  the  invitation. 

Finally  he  landed  Goree  by  telling  him  he  was  counting 
upon  his  help  in  the  engineering  and  transportation  of  a 
large  amount  of  felled  timber  from  a  high  mountain-side 
to  a  waterway.  He  knew  that  Goree  had  once  invented 
a  device  for  this  purpose  —  a  series  of  slides  and  chutes — 
upon  which  he  had  justly  prided  himself.  In  an  instant 
the  poor  fellow,  delighted  at  the  idea  of  his  being  of  use 
to  any  one,  had  paper  spread  upon  the  table,  and  was 
drawing  rapid  but  pitifully  shaky  lines  in  demonstration 
of  what  he  could  and  would  do. 

The  man  was  sickened  of  the  husks;  his  prodigal  heart 
was  turning  again  toward  the  mountains.  His  mind  was 


182  Whirligigs 

yet  strangely  clogged,  and  his  thoughts  and  memories 
were  returning  to  his  brain  one  by  one,  like  carrier  pigeons 
over  a  stormy  sea.  But  Coltrane  was  satisfied  with  the 
progress  he  had  made. 

Bethel  received  the  surprise  of  its  existence  that  after 
noon  when  a  Coltrane  and  a  Goree  rode  amicably  together 
through  the  town.  Side  by  side  they  rode,  out  from  the 
dusty  streets  and  gaping  townspeople,  down  across  the 
creek  bridge,  and  up  toward  the  mountain.  The  prodigal 
had  brushed  and  washed  and  combed  himself  to  a  more 
decent  figure,  but  he  was  unsteady  in  the  saddle,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  deep  in  the  contemplation  of  some  vexing 
problem.  Coltrane  left  him  in  his  mood,  relying  upon  the 
influence  of  changed  surroundings  to  restore  his 
equilibrium. 

Once  Goree  was  seized  with  a  shaking  fit,  and  almost 
came  to  a  collapse.  He  had  to  dismount  and  rest  at  the 
side  of  the  road.  The  colonel,  foreseeing  such  a  con 
dition,  had  provided  a  small  flask  of  whisky  for  the  journey 
but  when  it  was  offered  to  him  Goree  refused  it  almost 
with  violence,  declaring  he  would  never  touch  it  again. 
By  and  by  he  was  recovered,  and  went  quietly  enough 
for  a  mile  or  two.  Then  he  pulled  up  his  horse  suddenly, 
and  said : 

"I  lost  two  hundred  dollars  last  night,  playing  poker. 
Now,  where  did  I  get  that  money  ?" 

"Take  it  easy,  Yancey.  The  mountain  air  will  soon 
clear  it  up.  We'll  go  fishing,  first  thing,  at  the  Pinnacle 
Falls.  The  trout  are  jumping  there  like  bullfrogs.  We'll 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  183 

take  Stella  and  Lucy  along,  and  have  a  picnic  on  Eagle 
Rock.  Have  you  forgotten  how  a  hickory-cured-ham 
sandwich  tastes,  Yancey,  to  a  hungry  fisherman  ?" 

Evidently  the  colonel  did  not  believe  the  story  of  his 
lost  wealth;  so  Goree  retired  again  into  brooding  silence. 

By  late  afternoon  they  had  travelled  ten  of  the  twelve 
miles  between  Bethel  and  Laurel.  Half  a  mile  this  side 
of  Laurel  lay  the  old  Goree  place;  a  mile  or  two  beyond 
the  village  lived  the  Coltranes.  The  road  was  now  steep 
and  laborious,  but  the  compensations  were  many.  The 
tilted  aisles  of  the  forest  were  opulent  with  leaf  and  bird 
and  bloom.  The  tonic  air  put  to  shame  the  pharma 
copoeia.  The  glades  were  dark  with  mossy  shade,  and 
bright  with  shy  rivulets  winking  from  the  ferns  and 
laurels.  On  the  lower  side  they  viewed,  framed  in  the 
near  foilage,  exquisite  sketches  of  the  far  valley  swooning 
in  its  opal  haze. 

Coltrane  was  pleased  to  see  that  his  companion  was 
yielding  to  the  spell  of  the  hills  and  woods.  For  now 
they  had  but  to  skirt  the  base  of  Painter's  Cliff;  to  cross 
Elder  Branch  and  mount  the  hill  beyond,  and  Goree 
would  have  to  face  the  squandered  home  of  his  fathers. 
Every  rock  he  passed,  every  tree,  every  foot  of  the  road 
way,  was  familiar  to  him.  Though  he  had  forgotten  the 
woods,  they  thrilled  him  like  the  music  of  "Home,  Sweet 
Home.'" 

They  rounded  the  cliff,  descended  intp  Elder  Branch, 
and  paused  there  to  let  the  horses  «lrink  and  plash  in 
the  rx*ri\  water  On  ihe  riffht  >as  a  rail  fence  that 


184  Whirligigs 

Cornered  there,  and  followed  the  road  and  stream. 
Inclosed  by  it  was  the  old  apple  orchard  of  the  home 
place;  the  house  was  yet  concealed  by  the  brow  of  the 
steep  hill.  Inside  and  along  the  fence,  pokeberries, 
elders,  sassafras,  and  sumac  grewr  high  and  dense.  At 
a  rustle  of  their  branches,  both  Goree  and  Coltrane  glanced 
up,  and  saw  a  long,  yellow,  wolfish  face  above  the  fence, 
staring  at  them  with  pale,  unwinking  eyes.  The  head 
quicky  disappeared;  there  was  a  violent  swaying  of  the 
bushes,  and  an  ungainly  figure  ran  up  through  the  apple 
orchard  in  the  direction  of  the  house,  zigzagging  among 
the  trees. 

"That's  Garvey,"  said  Coltrane;  "the  man  you  sold 
out  to.  There's  no  doubt  but  he's  considerably  cracked. 
I  had  to  send  him  up  for  moonshining  once,  several  years 
ago,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  believed  him  irresponsible. 
Why,  what's  the  matter,  Yancey  ?" 

Goree  was  wiping  his  forehead,  and  his  face  had  lost 
its  colour.  "Do  I  look  queer,  too?"  he  asked,  trying 
to  smile.  "I'm  just  remembering  a  few  more  things." 
Some  of  the  alcohol  had  evaporated  from  his  brain.  "I 
recollect  now  where  I  got  that  two  hundred  dollars." 

"Don't  think  of  it,"  said  Coltrane  cheerfully.  "Later 
on  we'll  figure  it  all  out  together." 

They  rode  out  of  the  branch,  and  when  they  reached 
the  foot  of  the  hill  Goree  stopped  again. 

"Did  you  ever  suspect  I  was  a  very  vain  kind  of  fellow, 
Colonel?"  he  asked.  "Sort  of  foolish  proud  about 
appearances?" 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  185 

The  colonel's  eyes  refused  to  wander  to  the  soiled,  sag 
ging  suit  of  flax  and  the  faded  slouch  hat. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  replied,  mystified,  but  humouring 
him,  "I  remember  a  young  buck  about  twenty,  with  the 
tightest  coat,  the  sleekest  hair,  and  the  prancingest  saddle 
horse  in  the  Blue  Ridge." 

"Right  you  are,"  said  Goree  eagerly.  "And  it's  in 
me  yet,  though  it  don't  show.  Oh,  I'm  as  vain  as  a 
turkey  gobbler,  and  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  I'm  going  to 
ask  you  to  indulge  this  weakness  of  mine  in  a  little 
matter." 

"Speak  out,  Yancey.  We'll  create  you  Duke  of 
Laurel  and  Baron  of  Blue  Ridge,  if  you  choose;  and  you 
shall  have  a  feather  out  of  Stella's  peacock's  tail  to  wear 
in  your  hat." 

"I'm  in  earnest.  In  a  few  minutes  we'll  pass  the  house 
up  there  on  the  hill  where  I  was  born,  and  where  my 
people  have  lived  for  nearly  a  century.  Strangers  live 
there  now  —  and  look  at  me !  I  am  about  to  show  myself 
to  them  ragged  and  poverty-stricken,  a  wastrel  and  a 
beggar.  Colonel  Coltrane,  I'm  ashamed  to  do  it.  I 
want  you  to  let  me  wear  your  coat  and  hat  until  we  are 
out  of  sight  beyond.  I  know  you  think  it  a  foolish  pride, 
but  I  want  to  make  as  good  a  showing  as  I  can  when 
I  pass  the  old  place." 

"Now,  what  does  this  mean?"  said  Coltrane  to  him 
self,  as  he  compared  his  companion's  sane  looks  and 
quiet  demeanour  with  his  strange  request.  But  he 
was  already  unbuttoning  the  coat,  assenting  readily, 


186  Whirligigs 

as  if  the  fancy  were  in  no  wise  to  be  considered 
strange. 

The  coat  and  hat  fitted  Goree  well.  He  buttoned 
the  former  about  him  with  a  look  of  satisfaction  and 
dignity.  He  and  Coltrane  were  nearly  the  same  size  — 
rather  tall,  portly,  and  erect.  Twenty-five  years  were 
between  them,  but  in  appearance  they  might  have 
been  brothers.  Goree  looked  older  than  his  a^e; 

O      * 

his  face  was  puffy  and  lined;  the  colonel  had  the 
smooth,  fresh  complexion  of  a  temperate  liver.  He 
put  on  Goree's  disreputable  old  flax  coat  and  faded 
slouch  hat. 

"Now,"  said  Goree,  taking  up  the  reins,  "I'm  all 
right.  I  want  you  to  ride  about  ten  feet  in  the  rear  as  we 
go  by,  Colonel,  so  that  they  can  get  a  good  look  at  me. 
They'll  see  I'm  no  back  number  yet,  by  any  means.  I 
guess  I'll  show  up  pretty  well  to  them  once  more,  any 
how.  Let's  ride  on." 

He  set  out  up  the  hill  at  a  smart  trot,  the  colonel  fol 
lowing,  as  he  had  been  requested. 

Goree  sat  straight  in  the  saddle,  with  head  erect,  but 
his  eyes  were  turned  to  the  right,  sharply  scanning  every 
shrub  and  fence  and  hiding-place  in  the  old  homestead 
yard.  Once  he  muttered  to  himself,  "Will  the  crazy 
fool  try  it,  or  did  I  dream  half  of  it  ? " 

It  was  when  he  came  opposite  the  little  family  burying 
ground  that  he  saw  what  he  had  been  looking  for  —  a 
puff  of  white  smoke,  coming  from  the  thick  cedars  in  one 
corner.  He  toppled  so  slowly  to  the  left  that  Coltrane 


A  Blackjack  Bargainer  187 

had  time  to  urge  his  horse  to  that  side,  and  catch  him 
with  one  arm.  . 

The  squirrel  hunter  had  not  overpraised  his  aim.  He 
had  sent  the  bullet  where  he  intended,  and  where  Goree 
had  expected  that  it  would  pass  —  through  the  breast 
of  Colonel  Abner  Coltrane's  black  frock  coat. 

Goree  leaned  heavily  against  Coltrane,  but  he  did  not 
fall.  The  horses  kept  pace,  side  by  side,  and  the  Colonel's 
arm  kept  him  steady.  The  little  white  houses  of  Laurel 
shone  through  the  trees,  half  a  mile  away.  Goree  reached 
out  one  hand  and  groped  until  it  rested  upon  Coltrane's 
fingers,  which  held  his  bridle. 

"  Good  friend,"  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

Thus  did  Yancey  Goree,  as  he  rode  past  his  old  home, 
make,  considering  all  things,  the  best  showing  that  was 
in  his  power. 


H.ALF  a  dozen  people  supping  at  a  table  in  one  of  the 
upper-Broadway  all-night  restaurants  were  making  too 
much  noise.  Three  times  the  manager  walked  past 
them  with  a  politely  warning  glance;  but  their  argument 
had  waxed  too  warm  to  be  quelled  by  a  manager's  gaze. 
It  was  midnight,  and  the  restaurant  was  filled  with 
patrons  from  the  theatres  of  that  district.  Some  among 
the  dispersed  audiences  must  have  recognized  among  the 
quarrelsome  sextet  the  faces  of  the  players  belonging  to 
the  Carroll  Comedy  Company. 

Four  of  the  six  made  up  the  company.  Another  was 
the  author  of  the  comedietta,  "A  Gay  Coquette," 
which  the  quartette  of  players  had  been  presenting  with 
fair  success  at  several  vaudeville  houses  in  the  city.  The 
sixth  at  the  table  was  a  person  inconsequent  in  the  realm 
of  art,  but  one  at  whose  bidding  many  lobsters  had 
perished. 

Loudly  the  six  maintained  their  clamorous  debate. 
No  one  of  the  party  was  silent  except  when  answers 
were  stormed  from  him  by  the  excited  ones.  That  was 
the  comedian  of  "A  Gay  Coquette."  He  was  a  young 
man  with  a  face  even  too  melancholy  for  his  profession. 

188 


189 

The  oral  warfare  of  four  immoderate  tongues  was 
directed  at  Miss  Clarice  Carroll,  the  twinkling  star  of  the 
small  aggregation.  Excepting  the  downcast  comedian, 
all  members  of  the  party  united  in  casting  upon  her  with 
vehemence  the  blame  of  some  momentous  misfortune. 
Fifty  times  they  told  her:  "It  is  your  fault,  Clarice  — 
it  is  you  alone  who  spoilt  the  scene.  It  is  only  of  late 
that  you  have  acted  this  way.  At  this  rate  the  sketch 
will  have  to  be  taken  off." 

Miss  Carroll  was  a  match  for  any  four.  Gallic  ancestry 
gave  her  a  vivacity  that  could  easily  mount  to  fury.  Her 
large  eyes  flashed  a  scorching  denial  at  her  accusers.  Her 
slender,  eloquent  arms  constantly  menaced  the  tableware. 
Her  high,  clear  soprano  voice  rose  to  what  would  have 
been  a  scream  had  it  not  possessed  so  pure  a  musical 
quality.  She  hurled  back  at  the  attacking  four  their 
denunciations  in  tones  sweet,  but  of  too  great  cariying 
power  for  a  Broadway  restaurant. 

Finally  they  exhausted  her  patience  both  as  a  woman 
and  an  artist.  She  sprang  up  like  a  panther,  managed 
to  smash  half  a  dozen  plates  and  glasses  with  one  royal 
sweep  of  her  arm,  and  defied  her  critics.  They  rose  and 
wrangled  more  loudly.  The  comedian  sighed  and  looked 
a  trifle  sadder  and  disinterested.  The  manager  came 
tripping  and  suggested  peace.  He  was  told  to  go  to  the 
popular  synonym  for  war  so  promptly  that  the  affair 
might  have  happened  at  The  Hague. 

Thus  was  the  manager  angered.  He  made  a  sign 
with  his  hand  and  a  waiter  slipped  out  of  the  door.  In 


190  Whirligigs 

twenty  minutes  the  party  of  six  was  in  a  police  station 
facing  a  grizzled  and  philosophical  desk  sergeant. 

"Disorderly  conduct  in  a  restaurant,"  said  the  police 
man  who  had  brought  the  party  in. 

The  author  of  "  A  Gay  Coquette  "  stepped  to  the  front. 
He  wore  nose-glasses  and  evening  clothes,  even  if  his  shoes 
had  been  tans  before  they  met  the  patent-leather-polish 
bottle. 

"Mr.  Sergeant,"  said  he,  out  of  his  throat,  like  Actor 
Irving,  "I  would  like  to  protest  against  this  arrest.  The 
company  of  actors  who  are  performing  in  a  little  play 
that  I  have  written,  in  company  with  a  friend  and  myself 
were  having  a  little  supper.  We  became  deeply  interested 
in  the  discussion  as  to  which  one  of  the  cast  is  responsible 
for  a  scene  in  the  sketch  that  lately  has  fallen  so  flat  that 
the  piece  is  about  to  become  a  failure.  We  may  have 
been  rather  noisy  and  intolerant  of  interruption  by  the 
restaurant  people;  but  the  matter  was  of  considerable 
importance  to  all  of  us.  You  see  that  we  are  sober  and 
are  not  the  kind  of  people  who  desire  to  raise  disturbances. 
I  hope  that  the  case  will  not  be  pressed  and  that  we  may 
be  allowed  to  go." 

"Who  makes  the  charge?"  asked  the  sergeant. 

"Me,"  said  a  white-aproned  voice  in  the  rear.  "De 
restaurant  sent  me  to.  De  gang  was  raisin'  a  rough- 
house  and  breakin'  dishes." 

"The  dishes  were  paid  for,"  said  the  playwright. 
"  They  were  not  broken  purposely.  In  her  anger,  because 
we  remonstrated  with  her  for  spoiling  the  scene,  Miss " 


The  Song  and  the  Sergeant  191 

"It's  not  true,  sergeant,"  cried  the  clear  voice  of  Miss 
Clarice  Carroll.  In  a  long  coat  of  tan  silk  and  a  red- 
plumed  hat,  she  bounded  before  the  desk. 

"It's  not  my  fault,"  she  cried  indignantly.  "How 
dare  they  say  such  a  thing!  I've  played  the  title  role 
ever  since  it  was  staged,  and  if  you  want  to  know  who  made 
it  a  success,  ask  the  public  —  that's  all." 

"What  Miss  Carroll  says  is  true  in  part,"  said  the 
author.  "  For  five  months  the  comedietta  was  a  drawing 
card  in  the  best  houses.  But  during  the  last  two  weeks 
it  has  lost  favour.  There  is  one  scene  in  it  in  which  Miss 
Carroll  made  a  big  hit.  Now  she  hardly  gets  a  hand  out 
of  it.  She  spoils  it  by  acting  it  entirely  different  from 
her  old  way." 

"It  is  not  my  fault,"  reiterated  the  actress. 

"There  are  only  two  of  you  on  in  the  scene,"  argued 
the  playwright  hotly,  "  you  and  Delmars,  here  — 

"Then  it's  his  fault,"  declared  Miss  Carroll,  with  a 
lightning  glance  of  scorn  from  her  dark  eyes.  The 
comedian  caught  it,  and  gazed  with  increased  melancholy 
at  the  panels  of  the  sergeant's  desk. 

The  night  was  a  dull  one  in  that  particular  police  station. 

The  sergeant's  long-blunted  curiosity   awoke  a    little. 

"I've  heard  you,"  he  said  to  the  author.  And  then 
he  addressed  the  thin-faced  and  ascetic-looking  lady 
of  the  company  who  played  "Aunt  Turnip-top"  in  the 
little  comedy. 

"Who  do  you  think  spoils  the  scene  you  are  fussing 
about?"  he  asked. 


192  Whirligigs 

"I'm  no  knocker,"  said  that  lady,  "and  everybody 
knows  it.  So,  when  I  say  that  Clarice  falls  down  every 
time  in  that  scene  I'm  judging  her  art  and  not  herself. 
She  wras  great  in  it  once.  She  does  it  something  fierce 
now.  It'll  dope  the  show  if  she  keeps  it  up." 

The  sergeant  looked  at  the  comedian. 

"You  and  the  lady  have  this  scene  together,  I  under 
stand.  I  suppose  there's  no  use  asking  you  which  one 
of  you  queers  it  ?  " 

The  comedian  avoided  the  direct  rays  from  the  two 
fixed  stars  of  Miss  Carroll's  eyes. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  his  patent- 
leather  toes. 

"Are  you  one  of  the  actors?"  asked  the  sergeant  of 
a  dwarfish  youth  with  a  middle-aged  face. 

"Why,  say!"  replied  the  last  Thespian  witness,  "you 
don't  notice  any  tin  spear  in  my  hands,  do  you  ?  You 
haven't  heard  me  shout:  'See,  the  Emperor  comes!'  since 
I've  been  in  here,  have  you  ?  I  guess  I'm  on  the  stage 
long  enough  for  'em  not  to  start  a  panic  by  mistaking  me 
for  a  thin  curl  of  smoke  rising  above  the  footlights." 

"In  your  opinion,  if  you've  got  one,"  said  the  sergeant, 
"is  the  frost  that  gathers  on  the  scene  in  question 
the  work  of  the  lady  or  the  gentleman  who  takes 
part  in  it?" 

The  middle-aged  youth  looked  pained. 

"I  regret  to  say,"  he  answered,  "that  Miss  Carroll 
seems  to  have  lost  her  grip  on  that  scene.  She's  all  right 
in  the  rest  of  the  play,  but  —  but  I  tell  you,  sergeant,  she 


The  Song  and  the  Sergeant  193 

can  do  it  —  she  has  done  it  equal  to  any  of  'ern  —  and 
she  can  do  it  again." 

Miss  Carroll  ran  forward,  glowing  and  palpitating. 

"Thank  you,  Jimmy,  for  the  first  good  word  I've  had 
in  many  a  day,"  she  cried.  And  then  she  turned  her 
eager  face  toward  the  desk. 

"I'll  show  you,  sergeant,  whether  I  am  to  blame.  I'll 
show  them  whether  I  can  do  that  same.  Come,  Mr. 
Delmars,  let  us  begin.  You  will  let  us,  won't  you, 
sergeant?" 

"How  long  will  it  take  ?"  asked  the  sergeant,  dubiously. 

"Eight  minutes,"  said  the  playwright.  "The  entire 
play  consumes  but  thirty." 

"You  may  go  ahead,"  said  the  sergeant.  "Most  of 
you  seem  to  side  against  the  little  lady.  Maybe  she  had 
a  right  to  crack  up  a  saucer  or  two  in  that  restaurant. 
We'll  see  how  she  does  the  turn  before  we  take  that  up." 

The  matron  of  the  police  station  had  been  standing 
near,  listening  to  the  singular  argument.  She  came 
nigher  and  stood  near  the  sergeant's  chair.  Two  or 
three  of  the  reserves  strolled  in,  big  and  yawning. 

"Before  beginning  the  scene,"  said  the  playwright,  "and 
assuming  that  you  have  not  seen  a  production  of  'A  Gay 
Coquette,'  I  will  make  a  brief  but  necessary  explanation. 
It  is  a  musical-farce-comedy  —  burlesque-comedietta. 
As  the  title  implies,  Miss  Carroll's  role  is  that  of  a  gay, 
rollicking,  mischievous,  heartless  coquette.  She  sustains 
that  character  throughout  the  entire  comedy  part  of  the 
production.  And  I  have  designed  the  extravaganza 


194  Whirligigs 

features  so  that  she  may  preserve  and  present  the  same 
coquettish  idea. 

"Now,  the  scene  in  which  we  take  exception  to  Miss 
Carroll's  acting  is  called  the  'gorilla  dance.'  She  is 
costumed  to  represent  a  wood  nymph,  and  there  is  a  great 
song-and-dance  scene  with  a  gorilla  —  played  by  Mr. 
Delmars,  the  comedian.  A  tropical-forest  stage  is  set. 

"That  used  to  get  four  and  five  recalls.  The  main 
thing  was  the  acting  and  the  dance  —  it  was  the  funniest 
thing  in  New  York  for  five  months.  Dclmars's  song, 
'I'll  Woo  Thee  to  My  Sylvan  Home,'  while  he  and  Miss 
Carroll  were  cutting  hide-and-seek  capers  among  the 
tropical  plants,  was  a  winner." 

"What's  the  trouble  with  the  scene  now?"  asked  the 
sergeant. 

"Miss  Carroll  spoils  it  right  in  the  middle  of  it,"  said 
the  playwright  wrathfully. 

With  a  wide  gesture  of  her  ever-moving  arms  the 
actress  waved  back  the  little  group  of  spectf  tors,  leaving 
a  space  m  front  of  the  desk  for  the  scene  of  r  ar  vindication 
or  fall.  Then  she  whipped  off  her  long  fan  cloak  and 
tossed  it  across  the  arm  of  the  policeman  who  still  stood 
officially  among  them. 

Miss  Carroll  had  gone  to  supper  well  cloaked,  but 
in  the  costume  of  the  tropic  wood  nymph.  A  skirt  of 
fern  leaves  touched  her  knee;  she  was  like  a  humming 
bird  —  green  and  golden  and  purple. 

And  then  she  danced  a  fluttering,  fantastic  dance,  so 
agile  and  light  and  mazy  in  her  steps  that  the  other  three 


The  Song  and  the  Sergeant  195 

members  of  the  Carroll  Comedy  Company  broke  into 
applause  at  the  art  of  it. 

And  at  the  proper  time  Delmars  leaped  out  at  her 
side,  mimicking  the  uncouth,  hideous  bounds  of  the 
gorilla  so  funnily  that  the  grizzled  sergeant  himself  gave 
a  short  laugh  like  the  closing  of  a  padlock.  They  danced 
together  the  gorilla  dance,  and  won  a  hand  from  all. 

Then  began  the  most  fantastic  part  of  the  scene  — 
the  wooing  of  the  nymph  by  the  gorilla.  It  was  a  kind 
of  dance  itself  —  eccentric  and  prankish,  with  the  nymph 
in  coquettish  and  seductive  retreat,  followed  by  the  gorilla 
as  he  sang  "I'll  Woo  Thee  to  My  Sylvan  Home." 

The  song  was  a  lyric  of  merit.  The  words  were  non 
sense,  as  befitted  the  play,  but  the  music  was  worthy  of 
something  better.  Delmars  struck  into  it  in  a  rich  tenor 
that  owned  a  quality  that  shamed  the  flippant  words. 

During  one  verse  of  the  song  the  wood  nymph  per 
formed  the  grotesque  evolutions  designed  for  the  scene. 
At  the  middle  of  the  second  verse  she  stood  still,  with  a 
strange  look  on  her  face,  seeming  to  gaze  dreamily  into 
the  depths  of  the  scenic  forest.  The  gorilla's  last  leap 
had  brought  him  to  her  feet,  and  there  he  knelt,  holding 
her  hand,  until  he  had  finished  the  haunting  lyric  that 
was  set  in  the  absurd  comedy  like  a  diamond  in  a  piece 
of  putty. 

When  Delmars  ceased  Miss  Carroll  started,  and 
covered  a  sudden  flow  of  tears  with  both  hands. 

"There!"  cried  the  playwright,  gesticulating  with 
violence;  "there  you  have  it,  sergeant.  For  two  weeks 


196  Whirligigs 

she  has  spoiled  that  scene  in  just  that  manner  at  er«*y 
performance.  I  have  begged  her  to  consider  that  it  is 
not  Ophelia  or  Juliet  that  she  is  playing.  Do  you  wonder 
now  at  our  impatience?  Tears  for  the  gorilla  song! 
The  play  is  lost!" 

Out  of  her  bewitchment,  whatever  it  was,  the  wood 
nymph  flared  suddenly,  and  pointed  a  desperate  finger 
at  Delmars. 

"It  is  you  —  you  who  have  done  this,"  she  cried 
wildly.  "You  never  sang  that  song  that  way  until  lately. 
It  is  your  doing." 

"I  give  it  up,"  said  the  sergeant. 

And  then  the  gray-haired  matron  of  the  police  station 
came  forward  from  behind  the  sergeant's  chair. 

"Must  an  old  woman  teach  you  all?"  she  said.  She 
went  up  to  Miss  Carroll  and  took  her  hand. 

"The  man's  wearing  his  heart  out  for  you,  my  dear. 
Couldn't  you  tell  it  the  first  note  you  heard  him  sing  ? 
All  of  his  monkey  flip-flops  wouldn't  have  kept  it 
from  me.  Must  you  be  deaf  as  well  as  blind  ?  That's 
why  you  couldn't  act  your  part,  child.  Do  you 
love  him  or  must  he  be  a  gorilla  for  the  rest  of  his 
days?" 

Miss  Carroll  whirled  around  and  caught  Delmars 
with  a  lightning  glance  of  her  eye.  He  came  toward  her, 
melancholy. 

"Did  you  hear,  Mr.  Delmars?"  she  asked,  with  a 
catching  breath. 

"I  did,"  said  the  comedian.     "It  is  true.     I  didn't 


The  Song  and  the  Sergeant  197 

think  there  was  any  use.  I  tried  to  let  you  know  with 
the  song." 

"Silly!"  said  the  matron;  "why  didn't  you  speak?" 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  wood  nymph,  "his  way  was  the 
best.  I  didn't  know,  but  —  it  was  just  what  I  wanted, 
Bobby." 

She  sprang  like  a  green  grasshopper;  and  the  comedian 
opened  his  arms,  and  —  smiled. 

"Get  out  of  this,"  roared  the  desk  sergeant  to  the 
waiting  waiter  from  the  restaurant.  "There's  nothing 
doing  here  for  you." 


XVII 
ONE  DOLLAR'S  WORTH 

IHE  judge  of  the  United  States  court  of  the  district 
lying  along  the  Rio  Grande  border  found  the  following 
letter  one  morning  in  his  mail: 

JUDGE: 

When  you  sent  me  up  for  four  years  you  made  a  talk. 
Among  other  hard  things,  you  called  me  a  rattlesnake. 
Maybe  I  am  one  —  anyhow,  you  hear  me  rattling  now. 
One  year  after  I  got  to  the  pen,  my  daughter  died  of  - 
well,  they  said  it  was  poverty  and  the  disgrace  together. 
You've  got  a  daughter,  Judge,  and  I'm  going  to  make 
you  know  how  it  feels  to  lose  one.  And  I'm  going  to 
bite  that  district  attorney  that  spoke  against  me.  I'm 
free  now,  and  I  guess  I've  turned  to  rattlesnake  all  right. 
I  feel  like  one.  I  don't  say  much,  but  this  is  my  rattle. 
Look  out  when  I  strike. 

Yours  respectfully, 

RATTLESNAKE. 

Judge  Derwent  threw  the  letter  carelessly  aside.  It 
was  nothing  new  to  receive  such  epistles  from  desperate 
men  whom  he  had  been  called  upon  to  judge.  He  felt 
no  alarm.  Later  on  he  showed  the  letter  to  Littlefield, 
the  young  district  attorney,  for  Littlefield's  name  was 

198 


One  Dollar's  Worth  199 

included  in  the  threat,  and  the  judge  was  punctilious  in 
matters  between  himself  and  his  fellow  men. 

Littlefield  honoured  the  rattle  of  the  writer,  as  far  as 
it  concerned  himself,  with  a  smile  of  contempt;  but  he 
frowned  a  little  OA^er  the  reference  to  the  Judge's  daughter, 
for  he  and  Nancy  Derwent  were  to  be  married  in  the 
fall. 

Littlefield  went  to  the  clerk  of  the  court  and  looked 
over  the  records  with  him.  They  decided  that  the  letter 
might  have  been  sent  by  Mexico  Sam,  a  half-breed  border 
desperado  who  had  been  imprisoned  for  manslaughter 
four  years  before.  Then  official  duties  crowded  the  mat 
ter  from  his  mind,  and  the  rattle  of  the  revengeful  serpent 
was  forgotten. 

Court  was  in  session  at  Brownsville.  Most  of  the  cases 
to  be  tried  were  charges  of  smuggling,  counterfeiting, 
post-office  robberies,  and  violations  of  Federal  laws  along 
the  border.  One  case  was  that  of  a  young  Mexican, 
Rafael  Ortiz,  who  had  been  rounded  up  by  a  clever 
deputy  marshal  in  the  act  of  passing  a  counterfeit  silver 
dollar.  He  had  been  suspected  of  many  such  deviations 
from  rectitude,  but  this  was  the  first  time  that  anything 
provable  had  been  fixed  upon  him.  Ortiz  languished 
cozily  in  jail,  smoking  brown  cigarettes  and  waiting  for 
trial.  Kilpatrick,  the  deputy,  brought  the  counterfeit 
dollar  and  handed  it  to  the  district  attorney  in  his  office 
in  the  court-house.  The  deputy  and  a  reputable  druggist 
were  prepared  to  swear  that  Ortiz  paid  for  a  bottle  of 
medicine  with  it.  The  coin  was  a  poor  counterfeit,  soft, 


200  Whirligigs 

dull-looking,  and  made  principally  of  lead.  It  was  the 
day  before  the  morning  on  which  the  docket  would  reach 
the  case  of  Ortiz,  and  the  district  attorney  wTas  preparing 
himself  for  trial. 

"Not  much  need  of  having  in  high-priced  experts  to 
prove  the  coin's  queer,  is  there,  Kil  ? "  smiled  Littlefield, 
as  he  thumped  the  dollar  down  upon  the  table,  wrhere  it 
fell  with  no  more  ring  than  would  have  come  from  a  lump 
of  putty. 

"I  guess  the  Greaser's  as  good  as  behind  the  bars," 
said  the  deputy,  easing  up  his  holsters.  "You've  got 
him  dead.  If  it  had  been  just  one  time,  these  Mexicans 
can't  tell  good  money  from  bad;  but  this  little  yaller 
rascal  belongs  to  a  gang  of  counterfeiters,  I  know.  This 
is  the  first  time  I've  been  able  to  catch  him  doing  the  trick. 
He's  got  a  girl  down  there  in  them  Mexican  jacals  on 
the  river  bank.  I  seen  her  one  day  when  I  was  watching 
him.  She's  as  pretty  as  a  red  heifer  in  a  flower  bed." 

Littlefield  shoved  the  counterfeit  dollar  into  his  pocket, 
and  slipped  his  memoranda  of  the  case  into  an  envelope. 
Just  then  a  bright,  winsome  face,  as  frank  and  jolly  as 
a  boy's,  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  in  walked  Nancy 
Derwent. 

"Oh,  Bob,  didn't  court  adjourn  at  twelve  to-day  until 
to-morrow?"  she  asked  of  Littlefield. 

"  It  did,"  said  the  district  attorney,  "  and  I'm  very  glad 
of  it.  I've  got  a  lot  of  rulings  to  look  up,  and  — 

"Now,  that's  just  like  you.  I  wonder  you  and  father 
don't  turn  to  law  books  or  rulings  or  something!  I 


One  Dollar's  Worth  201 

want  you  to  take  me  out  plover-shooting  this  afternoon. 
Long  Prairie  is  just  alive  with  them.  Don't  say  no, 
please!  I  want  to  try  my  new  twelve-bore  hammerless. 
I've  sent  to  the  livery  stable  to  engage  Fly  and  Bess  for 
the  buckboard ;  they  stand  fire  so  nicely.  I  was  sure  you 
would  go." 

They  were  to  be  married  in  the  fall.  The  glamour  was 
at  its  height.  The  plovers  won  the  day  —  or,  rather,  the 
afternoon  —  over  the  calf -bound  authorities.  Littlefield 
began  to  put  his  papers  away. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Kilpatrick  answered 
it.  A  beautiful,  dark-eyed  girl  with  a  skin  tinged  with 
the  faintest  lemon  colour  walked  into  the  room.  A  black 
shawl  was  thrown  over  her  head  and  wound  once  around 
her  neck. 

She  began  to  talk  in  Spanish,  a  voluble,  mournful 
stream  of  melancholy  music.  Littlefield  did  not  under 
stand  Spanish.  The  deputy  did,  and  he  translated  her 
talk  by  portions,  at  intervals  holding  up  his  hand  to  check 
the  flow  of  her  words. 

"She  came  to  see  you,  Mr.  Littlefield.  Her  name's t 
Joya  Trevinas.  She  wants  to  see  you  about  —  well, 
she's  mixed  up  with  that  Rafael  Ortiz.  She's  his  —  she's 
his  girl.  She  says  he's  innocent.  She  says  she  made 
the  money  and  got  him  to  pass  it.  Don't  you  believe 
her,  Mr.  Littlefield.  That's  the  way  with  these  Mexi 
can  girls;  they'll  lie,  steal,  or  kill  for  a  fellow  when  they 
get  stuck  on  him.  Never  trust  a  woman  that's  in  love!" 

"Mr.  Kilpatrick!" 


202  Whirligigs 

Nancy  Derwent's  indignant  exclamation  caused  the 
deputy  to  flounder  for  a  moment  in  attempting  to  explain 
that  he  had  misquoted  his  own  sentiments,  and  then  he 
went  on  with  the  translation: 

"She  says  she's  willing  to  take  his  place  in  the  jail  if 
you'll  let  him  out.  She  says  she  was  down  sick  with  the 
fever,  and  the  doctor  said  she'd  die  if  she  didn't  have 
medicine.  That's  why  he  passed  the  lead  dollar  on  the 
drug  store.  She  says  it  saved  her  life.  This  Rafae* 
seems  to  be  her  honey,  all  right;  there's  a  lot  of  stuff  in 
her  talk  about  love  and  such  things  that  you  don't  want  to 
hear." 

It  was  an  old  story  to  the  district  attorney. 

"Tell  her,"  said  he,  "that  I  can  do  nothing.  The  case 
comes  up  in  the  morning,  and  he  will  have  to  make  his 
fight  before  the  court." 

Nancy  Derwent  was  not  so  hardened.  She  was  look 
ing  with  sympathetic  interest  at  Joya  Trevinas  and  at 
Littlefield  alternately.  The  deputy  repeated  the  dis 
trict  attorney's  words  to  the  girl.  She  spoke  a  sentence 
or  two  in  a  low  voice,  pulled  her  shawl  closely  about  her 
face,  and  left  the  room. 

"  What  did  she  say  then  ?  "  asked  the  district  attorney. 

"Nothing  special,"  said  the  deputy.  "She  said:  'If 
the  life  of  the  one'  —  let's  see  how  it  went  — '  Si  la  vida 
de  ella  d  quien  tu  amas  —  if  the  life  of  the  girl  you  love  is 
ever  In  danger,  remember  Rafael  Ortiz.' " 

Kilpatrick  strolled  out  through  the  corridor  in  the 
direction  of  the  marshal's  office. 


One  Dollar's  Worth  203 

"  Can't  you  do  anything  for  them,  Bob  ?  "  asked  Nancy. 
**  It's  such  a  little  thing  —  just  one  counterfeit  dollar  — 
to  ruin  the  happiness  of  two  lives!  She  was  in  danger 
of  death,  and  he  did  it  to  save  her.  Doesn't  the  law  know 
the  feeling  of  pity  ?  " 

"It  hasn't  a  place  in  jurisprudence,  Nan,"  said  Little- 
field,  "especially  in  re  the  district  attorney's  duty.  I'll 
promise  you  that  the  prosecution  will  not  be  vindictive; 
but  the  man  is  as  good  as  convicted  when  the  case  is  called. 
Witnesses  will  swear  to  his  passing  the  bad  dollar  which 
I  have  in  my  pocket  at  this  moment  as '  Exhibit  A. '  There 
are  no  Mexicans  on  the  jury,  and  it  will  vote  Mr.  Greaser 
guilty  without  leaving  the  box." 

The  plover-shooting  was  fine  that  afternoon,  and  in 
the  excitement  of  the  sport  the  case  of  Rafael  and  the 
grief  of  Joya  Trevinas  was  forgotten.  The  district  attor 
ney  and  Nancy  Derwent  drove  out  from  the  town  three 
miles  along  a  smooth,  grassy  road,  and  then  struck  across 
a  rolling  prairie  toward  a  heavy  line  of  timber  on  Piedra 
Creek.  Beyond  this  creek  lay  Long  Prairie,  the  favourite 
haunt  of  the  plover.  As  they  were  nearing  the  creek 
they  heard  the  galloping  of  a  horse  to  their  right,  and 
saw  a  man  with  black  hair  and  a  swarthy  face  riding 
toward  the  woods  at  a  tangent,  as  if  he  had  come  up 
behind  them. 

"I've  seen  that  fellow  somewhere,"  said  Littlefield,  who 
had  a  memory  for  faces,  "  but  I  can't  exactly  place  him. 
Some  ranchman,  I  suppose,  taking  a  short  cut  home." 


204  Whirligigs 

They  spent  an  hour  on  Long  Prairie,  shooting  from 
the  buckboard.  Nancy  Derwent,  an  active,  outdoor 
Western  girl,  was  pleased  with  her  twelve-bore.  She 
had  bagged  within  two  brace  of  her  companion's  score. 

They  started  homeward  at  a  gentle  trot.  When  "within 
a  hundred  yards  of  Piedra  Creek  a  man  rode  out  of  the 
timber  directly  toward  them. 

"  It  looks  like  the  man  we  saw  coming  over,"  remarked 
Miss  Derwent. 

As  the  distance  between  them  lessened,  the  district 
attorney  suddenly  pulled  up  his  team  sharply,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  advancing  horseman.  That  individ 
ual  had  drawn  a  Winchester  from  its  scabbard  on  his 
saddle  and  thrown  it  over  his  arm. 

"  Now  I  know  you,  Mexico  Sam ! "  muttered  Littlefield 
to  himself.  "It  was  you  who  shook  your  xattles  in  that 
gentle  epistle." 

Mexico  Sam  did  not  leave  things  long  in  doubt.  He 
had  a  nice  eye  in  all  matters  relating  to  firearms,  so  when 
he  was  within  good  rifle  range,  but  outside  of  danger 
from  No.  8  shot,  he  threw  up  his  Winchester  and  opened 
fire  upon  the  occupants  of  the  buckboard. 

The  first  shot  cracked  the  back  of  the  seat  within  the 
two-inch  space  between  the  shoulders  of  Littlefield  and 
Miss  Derwent.  The  next  went  through  the  dashboard 
and  Littlefield 's  trouser  leg. 

The  district  attorney  hustled  Nancy  out  of  the  buck- 
board  to  the  ground.  She  was  a  little  pale,  but  asked  no 
questions.  She  had  the  frontier  instinct  that  accepts 


One  Dollar's  Worth  205 

conditions  in  an  emergency  without  superfluous  argument. 
They  kept  their  guns  in  hand,  and  Littlefield  hastily 
gathered  some  handfuls  of  cartridges  from  the  pasteboard 
box  on  the  seat  and  crowded  them  info  his  pockets. 

"Keep  behind  the  horses,  Nan,"  he  commanded. 
"That  fellow  is  a  ruffian  I  sent  to  prison  once.  He's 
trying  to  get  even.  He  knows  our  shot  won't  hurt  him 
at  that  distance." 

"All  right,  Bob,"  said  Nancy  steadily.  "I'm  not 
afraid.  But  you  come  close,  too.  Whoa,  Bess;  stand 
still,  now!" 

She  stroked  Bess's  mane.  Littlefield  stood  with  his 
gun  ready,  praying  that  the  desperado  would  come  within 
range. 

But  Mexico  Sam  was  playing  his  vendetta  along  safe 
lines.  He  was  a  bird  of  different  feather  from  the  plover. 
His  accurate  eye  drew  an  imaginary  line  of  circumference 
around  the  area  of  danger  from  bird-shot,  and  upon  this 
line  he  rode.  His  horse  wheeled  to  the  right,  and  as  his 
victims  rounded  to  the  safe  side  of  their  equine  breast 
work  he  sent  a  ball  through  the  district  attorney's  hat. 
Once  he  miscalculated  in  making  a  detour,  and  over 
stepped  his  margin.  Littlefield 's  gun  flashed,  and 
Mexico  Sam  ducked  his  head  to  the  harmless  patter  of  the 
shot.  A  few  of  them  stung  his  horse,  which  pranced 
promptly  back  to  tie  safety  line. 

The  desperado  fired  again.  A  little  cry  came  from 
Nancy  Derwent.  Littlefield  whirled,  with  blazing  eyes, 
and  saw  the  blood  trickling  down  her  cheek. 


£06  Whirligigs 

"I'm  not  hurt,  Bob — only  a  splinter  struck  me.  I 
think  he  hit  one  of  the  wheel-spokes." 

"Lord!"  groaned  Littlefield.  "If  I  only  had  a  charge 
of  buckshot!" 

The  ruffian  got  his  horse  still,  and  took  careful  aim. 
Fly  gave  a  snort  and  fell  in  the  harness,  struck  in  the 
neck.  Bess,  now  disabused  of  the  idea  that  plover  were 
being  fired  at,  broke  her  traces  and  galloped  wildly 
away.  Mexican  Sam  sent  a  ball  neatly  through  the 
fulness  of  Nancy  Derwent's  shooting  jacket. 

"Lie  down — lie  down!"  snapped  Littlefield.  "Close 
to  the  horse — flat  on  the  ground  —  so."  He  almost 
threw  her  upon  the  grass  against  the  back  of  the  recum 
bent  Fly.  Oddly  enough,  at  that  moment  the  words  of 
the  Mexican  girl  returned  to  his  mind: 

"If  the  life  of  the  girl  you  love  is  ever  in  danger,  remem 
ber  Rafael  Ortiz." 

Littlefield  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"Open  fire  on  him,  Nan,  across  the  horse's  back! 
Fire  as  fast  as  you  can!  You  can't  hurt  him,  but  keep 
him  dodging  shot  for  one  minute  while  I  try  to  work  a 
little  scheme." 

Nancy  gave  a  quick  glance  at  Littlefield,  and  saw  him 
take  out  his  pocket-knife  and  open  it.  Then  she  turned 
her  face  to  obey  orders,  keeping  up  a  rapid  fire  at  the 
enemy. 

Mexico  Sam  waited  patiently  until  this  innocuous 
fusillade  ceased.  He  had  plenty  of  time,  and  he  did  not 
care  to  risk  tb*>  chance  of  a  bird-shot  in  his  eye  when  if 


One  Dollar's  Worth  207 

could  be  avoided  by  a  little  caution.  He  pulled  his 
keavy  Stetson  low  down  over  his  face  until  the  shots  ceased. 
Then  he  drew  a  little  nearer,  and  fired  with  careful  aim 
at  what  he  could  see  of  his  victims  above  the  fallen  horse. 

Neither  of  them  moved.  He  urged  his  horse  a  few 
steps  nearer.  He  saw  the  district  attorney  rise  to  one 
knee  and  deliberately  level  his  shotgun.  He  pulled  his 
hat  down  and  awaited  the  harmless  rattle  of  the  tiny 
pellets. 

The  shotgun  blazed  with  a  heavy  report.  Mexico 
Sam  sighed,  turned  limp  all  over,  and  slowly  fell  from 
his  horse  —  a  dead  rattlesnake. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  court  opened,  and  the 
case  of  the  United  States  versus  Rafael  Ortiz  was  called. 
The  district  attorney,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  rose  and 
addressed  the  court. 

"May  it  please  your  honour,"  he  said,  "I  desire  to 
enter  a  nolle  pros,  in  this  case.  Even  though  the  defend 
ant  should  be  guilty,  there  is  not  sufficient  evidence  in  the 
hands  of  the  government  to  secure  a  conviction.  The 
piece  of  counterfeit  coin  upon  the  identity  of  which  the 
case  was  built  is  not  now  available  as  evidence.  I  ask, 
therefore,  that  the  case  be  stricken  off." 

At  the  noon  recess  Kilpatrick  strolled  into  the  district 
attorney's  office. 

"I've  just  been  down  to  take  a  squint  at  old  Mexico 
Sam,"  said  the  deputy.  "They've  got  him  laid  out. 
Old  Mexico  was  a  tough  outfit,  I  reckon.  The  boyy 


208  Whirligigs 

was  wonderin'  down  there  what  you  shot  him  with.  Some 
said  it  must  have  been  nails.  I  never  see  a  gun  carry 
anything  to  make  holes  like  he  had." 

"I  shot  him,"  said  the  district  attorney,  "with  Exhibit 
A  of  your  counterfeiting  case.  Lucky  thing  for  me  — 
and  somebody  else  —  that  it  was  as  bad  money  as  it  was! 
It  sliced  up  into  slugs  very  nicely.  Say,  Kil,  can't  you 
go  down  to  the  jacals  and  find  where  that  Mexican  girl 
lives?  Miss  Derwent  wants  to  know." 


XVIII 
A  NEWSPAPER  STORY 

A.T  8  A.  M.  it  lay  on  Giuseppi's  news-stand,  still  damp 
from  the  presses.  Giuseppi,  with  the  cunning  of  his  ilk, 
philandered  on  the  opposite  corner,  leaving  his  patrons 
to  help  themselves,  no  doubt  on  a  theory  related  to  the 
hypothesis  of  the  watched  pot. 

This  particular  newspaper  was,  according  to  its  custom 
and  design,  an  educator,  a  guide,  a  monitor,  a  champion 
and  a  household  counsellor  and  vade  mecum. 

From  its  many  excellencies  might  be  selected  three 
editorials.  One  was  in  simple  and  chaste  but  illuminat 
ing  language  directed  to  parents  and  teachers,  depreca 
ting  corporal  punishment  for  children. 

Another  was  an  accusive  and  significant  warning 
addressed  to  a  notorious  labour  leader  who  was  on  the 
point  of  instigating  his  clients  to  a  troublesome  strike. 

The  third  was  an  eloquent  demand  that  the  police 
force  be  sustained  and  aided  in  everything  that  tended 
to  increase  its  efficiency  as  public  guardians  and  servants. 

Besides  these  more  important  chidings  and  requisitions 
upon  the  store  of  good  citizenship  was  a  wise  prescription 
or  form  of  procedure  laid  out  by  the  editor  of  the  heart- 
to-heart  column  in  the  specific  case  of  a  young  man  who 

209 


£10  Whirligigs 

had  complained  of  the  obduracy  of  his  lady  love,  teaching 
him  how  he  might  win  her. 

Again,  there  was,  on  the  beauty  page,  a  complete 
answer  to  a  young  lady  inquirer  who  desired  admonition 
toward  the  securing  of  bright  eyes,  rosy  cheeks  and  a 
beautiful  countenance. 

One  other  item  requiring  special  cognizance  was  a 
brief  "personal,"  running  thus: 

DEAR  JACK: — Forgive  me.  You  were  right.  Meet  me 
corner  Madison  and  — th  at  8.30  this  morning.  We 
leave  at  noon. 

PENITENT. 

At  8  o'clock  a  young  man  with  a  haggard  look  and  the 
feverish  gleam  of  unrest  in  his  eye  dropped  a  penny  and 
picked  up  the  top  paper  as  he  passed  Giuseppi's  stand. 
A  sleepless  night  had  left  him  a  late  riser.  There  was 
an  office  to  be  reached  by  nine,  and  a  shave  and  a  hasty 
cup  of  coffee  to  be  crowded  into  the  interval. 

He  visited  his  barber  shop  and  then  hurried  on  his 
way.  He  pocketed  his  paper,  meditating  a  belated 
perusal  of  it  at  the  luncheon  hour.  At  the  next  corner 
it  fell  from  his  pocket,  carrying  with  it  his  pair  of  new 
gloves.  Three  blocks  he  walked,  missed  the  gloves  and 
turned  back  fuming. 

Just  on  the  half-hour  he  reached  the  corner  where 
lay  the  gloves  and  the  paper.  But  he  strangely  ignored 
that  which  he  had  come  to  seek.  He  was  holding 
two  little  hands  as  tightly  as  ever  he  could  and  looking 


A  Newspaper  Story 

into  two  penitent  brown  eyes,  while  joy  rioted  in  his 
heart. 

"Dear  Jack,"  she  said,  "I  knew  you  would  be  here 
on  time." 

"I  wonder  what  she  means  by  that,"  he  was  saying 
to  himself;  "but  it's  all  right,  it's  all  right." 

A  big  wind  puffed  out  of  the  west,  picked  up  the  paper 
from  the  sidewalk,  opened  it  out  and  sent  it  flying  and 
whirling  down  a  side  street.  Up  that  street  was  driving 
a  skittish  bay  to  a  spider-wheel  buggy,  the  young  man 
who  had  written  to  the  heart-to-heart  editor  for  a  recipe 
that  he  might  win  her  for  whom  he  sighed. 

The  wind,  with  a  prankish  flurry,  flapped  the  flying 
newspaper  against  the  face  of  the  skittish  bay.  There 
was  a  lengthened  streak  of  bay  mingled  with  the  red  of 
running  gear  that  stretched  itself  out  for  four  blocks. 
Then  a  water-hydrant  played  its  part  in  the  cosmogony, 
the  buggy  became  matchwood  as  foreordained,  and  the 
driver  rested  very  quietly  where  he  had  been  flung  on  the 
asphalt  in  front  of  a  certain  brownstone  mansion. 

They  came  out  and  had  him  inside  very  promptly.  And 
there  was  one  who  made  herself  a  pillow  for  his  head, 
and  cared  for  no  curious  eyes,  bending  over  and  sa/ing, 
"  Oh,  it  was  you ;  it  was  you  all  the  time,  Bobby !  Couldn't 
you  see  it  ?  And  if  you  die,  why,  so  must  I,  and  - 

But  in  all  this  wind  we  must  hurry  to  keep  in  touch 
with  our  paper. 

Policeman  O'Brine  arrested  it  as  a  character  dangerous 
to  traffic.  Straightening  its  dishevelled  leaves  with  his 


Whirligigs 

big,  slow  fingers,  he  stood  a  few  feet  from  the  family 
entrance  of  the  Shandon  Bells  Cafe.  One  headline  he 
spelled  out  ponderously:  "The  Papers  to  the  Front  in  a 
Move  to  Help  the  Police." 

But,  whisht!  The  voice  of  Danny,  the  head  bartender, 
through  the  crack  of  the  door:  "Here's  a  nip  for  ye,  Mike, 
ould  man." 

Behind  the  widespread,  amicable  columns  of  the  press 
Policeman  O'Brine  receives  swiftly  his  nip  of  the  real 
stuff.  He  moves  away,  stalwart,  refreshed,  fortified, 
to  his  duties.  Might  not  the  editor  man  view  with  pride 
the  early,  the  spiritual,  the  literal  fruit  that  had  blessed 
his  labours. 

Policeman  O'Brine  folded  the  paper  and  poked  it 
playfully  under  the  arm  of  a  small  boy  that  was  passing. 
That  boy  was  named  Johnny,  and  he  took  the  paper 
home  with  him.  His  sister  was  named  Gladys,  and 
she  had  written  to  the  beauty  editor  of  the  paper  asking 
for  the  practicable  touchstone  of  beauty.  That  was 
weeks  ago,  and  she  had  ceased  to  look  for  an  answer. 
Gladys  was  a  pale  girl,  with  dull  eyes  and  a  discontented 
expression.  She  was  dressing  to  go  up  to  the  avenue  to 
get  some  braid.  Beneath  her  skirt  she  pinned  two  leaves 
of  the  paper  Johnny  had  brought.  When  she  walked  the 
rustling  sound  was  an  exact  imitation  of  the  real  thing. 

On  the  street  she  met  the  Brown  girl  from  the  flat 
below  and  stopped  to  talk.  The  Brown  girl  turned  green. 
Only  silk  at  $5  a  yard  could  make  the  sound  that  she 
heard  when  Gladys  moved.  The  Brown  girl,  consumed 


A  Newspaper  Story  213 

by  jealousy,  said  something  spiteful  and  went  her  way, 
with  pinched  lips. 

Gladys  proceeded  toward  the  avenue.  Her  eyes  now 
sparkled  like  jagerfonteins.  A  rosy  bloom  visited  her 
cheeks;  a  triumphant,  subtle,  vivifying  smile  transfigured 
her  face.  She  was  beautiful.  Could  the  beauty  editor 
have  seen  her  then!  There  was  something  in  her  answer 
in  the  paper,  I  believe,  about  cultivating  kind  feelings 
toward  others  in  order  to  make  plain  features  attractive. 

The  labour  leader  against  whom  the  paper's  solemn 
and  weighty  editorial  injunction  was  laid  was  the  father 
of  Gladys  and  Johnny.  He  picked  up  the  remains  of 
the  journal  from  which  Gladys  had  ravished  a  cosmetic 
of  silken  sounds.  The  editorial  did  not  come  under  his 
eye,  but  instead  it  was  greeted  by  one  of  those  ingenious 
and  specious  puzzle  problems  that  enthrall  alike  the 
simpleton  and  the  sage. 

The  labour  leader  tore  off  half  of  the  page,  provided 
himself  with  table,  pencil  and  paper  and  glued  himself 
to  his  puzzle. 

Three  hours  later,  after  waiting  vainly  for  him  at  the 
appointed  place,  other  more  conservative  leaders  declared 
and  ruled  in  favour  of  arbitration,  and  the  strike  with  its 
attendant  dangers  wras  averted.  Subsequent  editions 
of  the  paper  referred,  in  coloured  inks,  to  the  clarion  tone 
of  its  successful  denunciation  of  the  labour  leader's 
intended  designs. 

The  remaining  leaves  of  the  active  journal  also  went 
loyally  to  the  proving  of  its  potency.  . 


214  Whirligigs 

When  Johnny  returned  from  school  he  sought  a  secluded 
spot  and  removed  the  missing  columns  from  the  inside  of 
his  clothing,  where  they  had  been  artfully  distributed  so  as 
to  successfully  defend  such  areas  as  are  generally  attacked 
during  scholastic  castigations.  Johnny  attended  a  private 
school  and  had  had  trouble  with  his  teacher.  As  has 
been  said,  there  was  an  excellent  editorial  against  corporal 
punishment  in  that  morning's  issue,  and  no  doubt  it  had 
its  effect. 

After  this  can  any  one  doubt  the  power  of  the  press? 


XIX 
TOMMY'S  BURGLAR 

AT  TEN  o'clock  P.  M.  Felicia,  the  maid,  left  by  the 
basement  door  with  the  policeman  to  get  a  raspberry 
phosphate  around  the  corner.  She  detested  the  police 
man  and  objected  earnestly  to  the  arrangement.  She 
pointed  out,  not  unreasonably,  that  she  might  have  been 
allowed  to  fall  asleep  over  one  of  St.  George  Rathbone's 
novels  on  the  third  floor,  but  she  was  overruled.  Rasp 
berries  and  cops  were  not  created  for  nothing. 

The  burglar  got  into  the  house  without  much  difficulty; 
because  we  must  have  action  and  not  too  much  descrip 
tion  in  a  2,000-word  story. 

In  the  dining  room  he  opened  the  slide  of  his  dark 
lantern.  With  a  brace  and  centrebit  he  began  to  bore 
into  the  lock  of  the  silver-closet. 

Suddenly  a  click  was  heard.  The  room  was  flooded 
with  electric  light.  The  dark  velvet  portieres  parted  to 
admit  a  fair-haired  boy  of  eight  in  pink  pajamas,  bearing 
a  bottle  of  olive  oil  in  his  hand. 

"Are  you  a  burglar?"  he  asked,  in  a  sweet,  childish 
voice. 

"Listen  to  that,"  exclaimed  the  man,  in  a  hoarse  voice. 
"Am  I  a  burglar?  Wot  do  you  suppose  I  have  a  three- 

215 


216  Whirligigs 

days'  growth  of  bristly  bread  on  my  face  for,  and  a  cap 
with  flaps  ?  Give  me  the  oil,  quick,  and  let  me  grease 
the  bit,  so  I  won't  wake  up  your  mamma,  who  is  lying 
down  with  a  headache,  and  left  you  in  charge  of  Felicia, 
who  has  been  faithless  to  her  trust." 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Tommy,  with  a  sigh.  "I  thought 
you  would  be  more  up-to-date.  This  oil  is  for  the  salad 
when  I  bring  lunch  from  the  pantry  for  you.  And 
mamma  and  papa  have  gone  to  the  Metropolitan  to  hear 
De  Reszke.  But  that  isn't  my  fault.  It  only  shows  how 
long  the  story  has  been  knocking  around  among  the 
editors.  If  the  author  had  been  wise  he'd  have  changed 
it  to  Caruso  in  the  proofs." 

"Be  quiet,"  hissed  the  burglar,  under  his  breath.  "If 
you  raise  an  alarm  I'll  wring  your  neck  like  a  rabbit's." 

"Like  a  chicken's,"  corrected  Tommy.  "You  had 
that  wrong.  You  don't  wring  rabbits'  necks." 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  me?"  asked  the  burglar. 

"You  know  I'm  not,"  answered  Tommy.  "Don't 
you  suppose  I  know  fact  from  fiction.  If  this  wasn't  a 
story  I'd  yell  like  an  Indian  when  I  saw  you;  and  you'd 
probably  tumble  downstairs  and  get  pinched  on  the 
sidewalk." 

"I  see,"  said  the  burglar,  "that  you're  on  to  your 
job.  Go  on  with  the  performance." 

Tommy  seated  himself  in  an  armchair  and  drew  his 
toes  up  under  him. 

"Why  do  you  go  around  robbing  strangers,  Mr.  Burg 
lar?  Have  you  no  friends?" 


Tommy's  Burglar  £17 

"I  see  what  you're  driving  at,"  said  the  burglar,  with 
a  dark  frown.  "It's  the  same  old  story.  Your  innocence 
and  childish  insouciance  is  going  to  lead  me  back  into 
an  honest  life.  Every  time  I  crack  a  crib  where  there's 
a  kid  around,  it  happens." 

"Would  you  mind  gazing  with  wolfish  eyes  at  the  plate 
of  cold  beef  that  the  butler  has  left  on  the  dining  table?" 
said  Tommy.  "I'm  afraid  it's  growing  late." 

The  burglar  accommodated. 

"Poor  man,"  said  Tommy.  "You  must  be  hungry. 
If  you  will  please  stand  in  a  listless  attitude  I  will  get  you 
something  to  eat." 

The  boy  brought  a  roast  chicken,  a  jar  of  marmalade 
and  a  bottle  of  wine  from  the  pantry.  The  burglar 
seized  a  knife  and  fork  sullenly. 

"It's  only  been  an  hour,"  he  grumbled,  "since  I  had  a 
lobster  and  a  pint  of  musty  ale  up  on  Broadway.  I  wish 
these  story  writers  would  let  a  fellow  have  a  pepsin  tablet, 
anyhow,  between  feeds." 

"My  papa  writes  books,"  remarked  Tommy. 

The  burglar  jumped  to  his  feet  quickly. 

"You  said  he  had  gone  to  the  opera,"  he  hissed,  hoarsely 
and  with  immediate  suspicion. 

"I  ought  to  have  explained,"  said  Tommy.  "He 
didn't  buy  the  tickets."  The  burglar  sat  again  and  toyed 
with  the  wishbone. 

"Why  do  you  burgle  houses?"  asked  the  boy, 
wonderingly. 

"Because,"  replied  the  burglar,  with  a  sudden  flow  of 


218  Whirligigs 

tears.  "God  bless  my  little  brown-haired  boy  Bessie 
at  home." 

"Ah,"  said  Tommy,  wrinkling  his  nose,  "you  got  that 
answer  in  the  wrong  place.  You  want  to  tell  your  hard- 
luck  story  before  you  pull  out  the  child  stop." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  burglar,  "I  forgot.  Well,  once 
I  lived  in  Milwaukee,  and " 

"Take  the  silver,"  said  Tommy,  rising  from  his  chair. 

"Hold  on,"  said  the  burglar.  "But  I  moved  away. 
I  could  find  no  other  employment.  For  a  while  I  man 
aged  to  support  my  wife  and  child  by  passing  confederate 
money;  but,  alas!  I  was  forced  to  give  that  up  because  it 
did  not  belong  to  the  union.  I  became  desperate  and  a 
burglar." 

"Have  you  ever  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  police?" 
asked  Tommy. 

"I  said  'burglar,'  not  'beggar,'"  answered  the 
cracksman. 

"After  you  finish  your  lunch,"  said  Tommy,  "and 
experience  the  usual  change  of  heart,  how  shall  we  wind 
up  the  story?" 

"Suppose,"  said  the  burglar,  thoughtfully,  "that  Tony 
Pastor  turns  out  earlier  than  usual  to-night,  and  your 
father  gets  in  from  'Parsifal'  at  10.30.  I  am  thoroughly 
repentant  because  you  have  made  me  think  of  my  own 
little  boy  Bessie,  and ' 

"Say,"  said  Tommy,  "haven't  you  got  that  wrong?" 

"Not  on  your  coloured  crayon  drawings  by  B.  Cory 
Kilvert,"  said  the  burglar.  "It's  always  a  Bessie  that 


Tommy's  Burglar  219 

I  have  at  home,  artlessly  prattling  to  the  pale-checked 
burglar's  bride.  As  I  was  saying,  your  father  opens  the 
front  door  just  as  I  am  departing  with  admonitions  and 
sandwiches  that  you  have  wrapped  up  for  me.  Upon 
recognizing  me  as  an  old  Harvard  classmate  he  starts 
back  in  — 

"Not  in  surprise?"  interrupted  Tommy,  with  wide- 
open  eyes. 

"He  starts  back  in  the  doorway,"  continued  the  burglar. 
And  then  he  rose  to  his  feet  arid  began  to  shout:  "Rah, 
rah,  rah!  rah,  rah,  rah!  rah,  rah,  rah!" 

"Well,"  said  Tommy,  wonderingly,  "that's  the  first 
time  I  ever  knew  a  burglar  to  give  a  college  yell  when  he 
was  burglarizing  a  house,  even  in  a  story." 

"That's  one  on  you,"  said  the  burglar,  with  a  laugh. 
"I  was  practising  the  dramatization.  If  this  is  put  on 
the  stage  that  college  touch  is  about  the  only  thing  that 
will  make  it  go." 

Tommy  looked  his  admiration. 

"You're  on,  all  right,"  he  said. 

"And  there's  another  mistake  you've  made,"  said  tne 
burglar.  "You  should  have  gone  some  time  ago  and 
brought  me  the  $9  gold  piece  your  mother  gave  you  on 
your  birthday  to  take  to  Bessie." 

"But  she  didn't  give  it  to  me  to  take  to  Bessie,"  said 
Tommy,  pouting. 

"Come,  come!"  said  the  burglar,  sternly.  "It's  not 
nice  of  you  to  take  advantage  because  the  story  contains 
an  ambiguous  sentence.  You  know  what  I  mean.  It's 


£20  Whirligigs 

mighty  little  I  get  out  of  these  fictional  jobs,  anyhow.  I 
lose  all  the  loot,  and  I  have  to  reform  every  time;  and  all 
the  swag  I'm  allowed  is  the  blamed  little  fol-de-rols  and 
luck-pieces  that  you  kids  hand  over.  Why,  in  one  story, 
all  I  got  was  a  kiss  from  a  little  girl  who  came  in  on  me 
when  I  was  opening  a  safe.  And  it  tasted  of  molasses 
candy,  too.  I've  a  good  notion  to  tie  this  table  cover 
over  your  head  and  keep  on  into  the  silver-closet." 

"Oh,  no,  you  haven't,"  said  Tommy,  wrapping  his 
arms  around  his  knees.  "Because  if  you  did  no  editor 
would  buy  the  story.  You  know  you've  got  to  preserve 
the  unities." 

"So've  you,"  said  the  burglar,  rather  glumly. 
"Instead  of  sitting  here  talking  impudence  and  taking  the 
bread  out  of  a  poor  man's  mouth,  what  you'd  like  to  be 
doing  is  hiding  under  the  bed  and  screeching  at  the  top 
of  your  voice." 

"You're  right,  old  man,"  said  Tommy,  heartily.  "I 
wonder  what  they  make  us  do  it  for?  I  think  the 
S.  P.  C.  C.  ought  to  interfere.  I'm  sure  it's  neither 
agreeable  nor  usual  for  a  kid  of  my  age  to  butt  in  when  a 
full-grown  burglar  is  at  work  and  offer  him  a  red  sled  and 
a  pair  of  skates  not  to  awaken  his  sick  mother.  And  look 
how  they  make  the  burglars  act!  You'd  think  editors 
would  know  —  but  what's  the  use  ?  " 

The  burglar  wiped  his  hands  on  the  tablecloth  and 
arose  with  a  yawn. 

"Well,  let's  get  through  with  it,"  he  said.  "God 
bless  you,  my  little  boy!  you  have  saved  a  man  from 


committing  a  crime  tliis  night.  Bessie  shall  pray  for  you 
as  soon  as  I  get  home  and  give  her  her  orders.  I  shall 
never  burglarize  another  house  —  at  least  not  until  the 
June  magazines  are  out.  It'll  be  your  little  sister's  turn 
then  to  run  in  on  me  while  I  am  abstracting  the  U.  S.  4 
per  cent,  from  the  tea  urn  and  buy  me  off  with  her  coral 
necklace  and  a  falsetto  kiss." 

"You  haven't  got  all  the  kicks  coming  to  you,"  sighed 
Tommy,  crawling  out  of  his  chair.  "Think  of  the  sleep 
I'm  losing.  But  it's  tough  on  both  of  us,  old  man.  I  wish 
you  could  get  out  of  the  story  and  really  rob  somebody. 
Maybe  you'll  have  the  chance  if  they  dramatize  us." 

"Never!"  said  the  burglar,  gloomily.  "Between  the 
box  office  and  my  better  impulses  that  your  leading  juven 
iles  are  supposed  to  awaken  and  the  magazines  that  pay 
on  publication,  I  guess  I'll  always  be  broke." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Tommy,  sympathetically.  "But  I 
can't  help  myself  any  more  than  you  can.  It's  one  of  the 
canons  of  household  fiction  that  no  burglar  shall  be  suc 
cessful.  The  burglar  must  be  foiled  by  a  kid  like  me,  or 
by  a  young  lady  heroine,  or  at  the  last  moment  by  his  old 
pal,  Red  Mike,  who  recognizes  the  house  as  one  in  which 
he  used  to  be  the  coachman.  You  have  got  the  worst 
end  of  it  in  any  kind  of  a  story." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  must  be  clearing  out  now,"  said 
the  burglar,  taking  up  his  lantern  and  bracebit. 

"You  have  to  take  the  rest  of  this  chicken  and  the 
bottle  of  wine  with  you  for  Bessie  and  her  mother,"  said 
Tommy,  calmly. 


Whirligigs 

"But  confound  it,"  exclaimed  the  burglar,  in  an  annoyed 
tone,  "they  don't  want  it.  I've  got  five  cases  of  Chateau 
de  Beychsvelle  at  home  that  was  bottled  in  1853.  That 
claret  of  yours  is  corked.  And  you  couldn't  get  either 
of  them  to  look  at  a  chicken  unless  it  was  stewed  in 
champagne.  You  know,  after  I  get  out  of  the  story  I 
don't  have  so  many  limitations.  I  make  a  turn  now  and 
then." 

"Yes,  but  you  must  take  them,"  said  Tommy,  loading 
his  arms  with  the  bundles. 

"Bless  you,  young  master!"  recited  the  burglar, 
obedient.  "Second-Story  Saul  will  never  forget  you. 
And  now  hurry  and  let  me  out,  kid.  Our  2,000  words 
must  be  nearly  up." 

Tommy  led  the  way  through  the  hall  toward  the  front 
door.  Suddenly  the  burglar  stopped  and  called  to  him 
softly:  "Ain't  there  a  cop  out  there  in  front  somewhere 
sparking  the  girl?" 

"Yes,"  said  Tommy,  "but  what  — 

"I'm  afraid  he'll  catch  me,"  said  the  burglar.  "You 
mustn't  forget  that  this  is  fiction." 

"Great  head!"  said  Tommy,  turning.  "Come  out 
by  the  back  door." 


XX 
A  CHAPARRAL  CHRISTMAS    GIFT 

1HE  original  cause  of  the  trouble  was  about  twenty 
years  in  growing. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  it  was  worth  it. 

Had  you  lived  anywhere  within  fifty  miles  of  Sun 
down  Ranch  you  would  have  heard  of  it.  It  possessed 
a  quantity  of  jet-black  hair,  a  pair  of  extremely  frank, 
deep-brown  eyes  and  a  laugh  that  rippled  across  the 
prairie  like  the  sound  of  a  hidden  brook.  The  name  of 
it  was  Rosita  McMullen ;  and  she  was  the  daughter  of 
old  man  McMullen  of  the  Sundown  Sheep  Ranch. 

There  came  riding  on  red  roan  steeds  —  or,  to  be  more 
explicit,  on  a  paint  and  a  flea-bitten  sorrel  —  two  wooers. 
One  was  Madison  Lane,  and  the  other  was  the  Frio  Kid. 
But  at  that  time  they  did  not  call  him  the  Frio  Kid,  for 
he  had  not  earned  the  honours  of  special  nomenclature. 
His  name  was  simply  Johnny  McRoy. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  these  two  were  the  sum 
of  the  agreeable  Rosita's  admirers.  The  bronchos  of  a 
dozen  others  champed  their  bits  at  the  long  hitching 
rack  of  the  Sundown  Ranch.  Many  were  the  sheeps'- 
eyes  that  were  cast  in  those  savannas  that  did  not  belong 
to  the  flocks  of  Dan  McMullen.  But  of  all  the  cavaliers, 

223 


Whirligigs 

Madison  Lane  and  Johnny  McRoy  galloped  far  ahead, 
wherefore  they  are  to  be  chronicled. 

Madison  Lane,  a  young  cattleman  from  the  Nueces 
country,  won  the  race.  He  and  Rosita  were  married  one 
Christmas  day.  Armed,  hilarious,  vociferous,  mag 
nanimous,  the  cowmen  and  the  sheepmen,  laying  aside 
their  hereditary  hatred,  joined  forces  to  celebrate  the 
occasion. 

Sundown  Ranch  was  sonorous  with  the  cracking  of 
jokes  and  sixshooters,  the  shine  of  buckles  and  bright 
eyes,  the  outspoken  congratulations  of  the  herders  of  kine. 

But  while  the  wedding  feast  was  at  its  liveliest  there 
descended  upon  it  Johnny  McRoy,  bitten  by  jealousy, 
like  one  possessed. 

"I'll  give  you  a  Christmas  present,"  he  yelled,  shrilly, 
at  the  door,  with  his  .45  in  his  hand.  Even  then  he  had 
some  reputation  as  an  offhand  shot. 

His  first  bullet  cut  a  neat  underbit  in  Madison  Lane's 
right  ear.  The  barrel  of  his  gun  moved  an  inch.  The 
next  shot  would  have  been  the  bride's  had  not  Carson,  a 
sheepman,  possessed  a  mind  with  triggers  somewhat  well 
oiled  and  in  repair.  The  guns  of  the  wedding  party 
had  been  hung,  in  their  belts,  upon  nails  in  the  wall  when 
they  sat  at  table,  as  a  concession  to  good  taste.  But 
Carson,  with  great  promptness,  hurled  his  plate  of  roast 
venison  and  frijoles  at  McRoy,  spoiling  his  aim.  The 
second  bullet,  then,  only  shattered  the  white  petals  of  a 
Spanish  dagger  flower  suspended  two  feet  above  Rosita's 
head. 


A  Chaparral  Christmas  Gift  225 

The  guests  spurned  their  chairs  and  jumped  for  their 
weapons.  It  was  considered  an  improper  act  to  shoot 
the  bride  and  groom  at  a  wedding.  In  about  six  seconds 
there  were  twenty  or  so  bullets  due  to  be  whizzing  in  the 
direction  of  Mr.  McRoy. 

"I'll  shoot  better  next  time,"  yelled  Johnny;  "and 
there'll  be  a  next  time."  He  backed  rapidly  out  the 
door. 

Carson,  the  sheepman,  spurred  on  to  attempt  further 
exploits  by  the  success  of  his  plate-throwing,  was  first  to 
reach  the  door.  McRoy's  bullet  from  the  darkness  laid 
him  low. 

The  cattlemen  then  swept  out  upon  him,  calling  for 
vengeance,  for,  while  the  slaughter  of  a  sheepman  has 
not  always  lacked  condonement,  it  was  a  decided  mis 
demeanour  in  this  instance.  Carson  was  innocent;  he 
was  no  accomplice  at  the  matrimonial  proceedings;  nor 
had  any  one  heard  him  quote  the  line  "Christmas  comes 
but  once  a  year"  to  the  guests. 

But  the  sortie  failed  in  its  vengeance.  McRoy  was  on 
his  horse  and  away,  shouting  back  curses  and  threats  as 
he  galloped  into  the  concealing  chaparral. 

That  night  was  the  birthnight  of  the  Frio  Kid.  He 
became  the  "bad  man"  of  that  portion  of  the  State. 
The  rejection  of  his  suit  by  Miss  McMullen  turned  him 
to  a  dangerous  man.  When  officers  went  after  him  for 
the  shooting  of  Carson,  he  killed  two  of  them,  and  entered 
upon  the  life  of  an  outlaw.  He  became  a  marvellous  shot 
with  either  hand.  He  would  turn  up  in  towns  and 


226  Whirligigs 

settlements,  raise  a  quarrel  at  the  slightest  opportunity, 
pick  off  his  man  and  laugh  at  the  officers  of  the  law.  He 
was  so  cool,  so  deadly,  so  rapid,  so  inhumanly  blood 
thirsty  that  none  but  faint  attempts  were  ever  made  to 
capture  him.  When  he  was  at  last  shot  and  killed  by  a 
little  one-armed  Mexican  who  was  nearly  dead  himself 
from  fright,  the  Frio  Kid  had  the  deaths  of  eighteen  men 
on  his  head.  About  half  of  these  were  killed  in  fair  duels 
depending  upon  the  quickness  of  the  draw.  The  other 
half  were  men  whom  he  assassinated  from  absolute 
wantonness  and  cruelty. 

Many  tales  are  told  along  the  border  of  his  impudent 
courage  and  daring.  But  he  was  not  one  of  the  breed  of 
desperadoes  who  have  seasons  of  generosity  and  even  of 
softness.  They  say  he  never  had  mercy  on  the  object 
of  his  anger.  Yet  at  this  and  every  Christmastide  it  is 
well  to  give  each  one  credit,  if  it  can  be  done,  for  what 
ever  speck  of  good  he  may  have  possessed.  If  the  Frio 
Kid  ever  did  a  kindly  act  or  felt  a  throb  of  generosity  in  his 
heart  it  was  once  at  such  a  time  and  season,  and  this  is 
the  way  it  happened. 

One  who  has  been  crossed  in  love  should  never  breathe 
the  odour  from  the  blossoms  of  the  ratama  tree.  It  stirs 
the  memory  to  a  dangerous  degree. 

One  December  in  the  Frio  country  there  was  a  ratama 
tree  in  full  bloom,  for  the  winter  had  been  as  warm  as 
springtime.  That  way  rode  the  Frio  Kid  and  his  satellite 
and  co-murderer,  Mexican  Frank.  The  kid  reined  in 


A  CJutparral  Christmas  Gift 

his  mustang,  and  sat  in  his  saddle,  thoughtful  and  grim, 
with  dangerously  narrowing  eyes.  The  rich,  sweet  scent 
touched  him  somewhere  beneath  his  ice  and  iron. 

"I  don't  know  what  I've  been  thinking  about,  Mex," 
he  remarked  in  his  usual  mild  drawl,  "to  have  forgot  all 
about  a  Christmas  present  I  got  to  give.  I'm  going  to 
ride  over  to-morrow  night  and  shoot  Madison  Lane  in 
his  own  house.  He  got  my  girl  —  Rosita  would  have 
had  me  if  he  hadn't  cut  into  the  game.  I  wonder  why  I 
happened  to  overlook  it  up  to  now?" 

"Ah,  shucks,  Kid,"  said  Mexican,  "don't  talk  foolish 
ness.  You  know  you  can't  get  within  a  mile  of  Mad 
Lane's  house  to-morrow  night.  I  see  old  man  Allen 
day  before  yesterday,  and  he  says  Mad  is  going  to 
have  Christmas  doings  at  his  house.  You  remember 
how  you  shot  up  the  festivities  when  Mad  was  married, 
and  about  the  threats  you  made  ?  Don't  you  suppose 
Mad  Lane'll  kind  of  keep  his  eye  open  for  a  certain 
Mr.  Kid  ?  You  plumb  mako  me  tired,  Kid,  with  such 
remarks." 

"I'm  going,"  repeated  the  Frio  Kid,  without  heat, 
"to  go  to  Madison  Lane's  Christmas  doings,  and  kill 
him.  I  ought  to  have  done  it  a  long  time  ago.  Why, 
Mex,  just  two  weeks  ago  I  dreamed  me  and  Rosita  was 
married  instead  of  her  and  him;  and  we  was  living  in  a 

house,  and  I  could  see  her  smiling  at  me,  and — oh!  h 1, 

Mex,  he  got  her;  and  I'll  get  him  —  yes,  sir,  on  Christmas 
Eve  he  got  her,  and  then's  when  I'll  get  him." 

"There's  other  ways  of  committing  suicide,"  advised 


Whirligigs 

Mexican.  "Why  don't  you  go  and  surrender  to  the 
sheriff?" 

"I'll  get  him,"  said  the  Kid. 

Christmas  Eve  fell  as  balmy  as  April.  Perhaps  there 
was  a  hint  of  far-away  frostiness  in  the  air,  but  it  tingled 
like  seltzer,  perfumed  faintly  with  late  prairie  blossoms 
and  the  mesquite  grass. 

When  night  came  the  five  or  six  rooms  of  the  ranch- 
house  were  brightly  lit.  In  one  room  was  a  Christmas 
tree,  for  the  Lanes  had  a  boy  of  three,  and  a  dozen  or 
more  guests  were  expected  from  the  nearer  ranches. 

At  nightfall  Madison  Lane  called  aside  Jim  Belcher 
and  three  other  cowboys  employed  on  his  ranch. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  Lane,  "keep  your  eyes  open.  Walk 
around  the  house  and  watch  the  road  well.  All  of  you 
know  the  Trio  Kid,'  as  they  call  him  now,  and  if  you 
see  him,  open  fire  on  him  without  asking  any  questions. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  his  coming  around,  but  Rosita  is.  She's 
been  afraid  he'd  come  in  on  us  every  Christmas  since  we 
were  married." 

The  guests  had  arrived  in  buckboards  and  on 
horseback,  and  were  making  themselves  comfortable 
inside. 

The  evening  went  along  pleasantly.  The  guests 
enjoyed  and  praised  Rosita's  excellent  supper,  and  after 
ward  the  men  scattered  in  groups  about  the  rooms  or 
on  the  broad  "gallery,"  smoking  and  chatting. 

The  Christmas  tree,  of  course,  delighted  the  youngsters, 
and  above  all  were  they  pleased  when  Santa  Claus  himself 


A  Chaparral  Christmas  Gift 

in  magnificent  white  beard  and  furs  appeared  and  began 
to  distribute  the  toys. 

"It's  my  papa,"  announced  Billy  Sampson,  aged  six. 
"I've  seen  him  wear  'em  before." 

Berkly,  a  sheepman,  an  old  friend  of  Lane,  stopped 
Rosita  as  she  was  passing  by  him  on  the  gallery,  where 
he  was  sitting  smoking. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Lane,"  said  he,  "I  suppose  by  this  Christ 
mas  you've  gotten  over  being  afraid  of  that  fellow  McRoy, 
haven't  you  ?  Madison  and  I  have  talked  about  it,  you 
know." 

"Very  nearly,"  said  Rosita,  smiling,  "but  I  am  still 
nervous  sometimes.  I  shall  never  forget  that  awful  time 
when  he  came  so  near  to  killing  us." 

"He's  the  most  cold-hearted  villain  in  the  world,"  said 
Berkly.  "The  citizens  all  along  the  border  ought  to 
turn  out  and  hunt  him  down  like  a  wolf." 

"He  has  committed  awful  crimes,"  said  Rosita,  "but 
—  I  —  don't  —  know.  I  think  there  is  a  spot  of  good 
somewhere  in  everybody.  He  was  not  always  bad  — 
that  I  know." 

Rosita  turned  into  the  hallway  between  the  rooms. 
Santa  Glaus,  in  muffling  whiskers  and  furs,  was  just 
coming  through. 

"I  heard  what  you  said  through  the  window,  Mrs. 
Lane,"  he  said.  "I  was  just  going  down  in  my 
pocket  for  a  Christmas  present  for  your  husband.  But 
I've  left  one  for  you,  instead.  It's  in  the  room  to  your 
right." 


230  Whirligigs 

"Oh,  thank  you,  kind  Santa  Claus,"  said  Rosita, 
brightly. 

Rosita  went  into  the  room,  while  Santa  Claus  stepped 
into  the  cooler  air  of  the  yard. 

She  found  no  one  in  the  room  but  Madison. 

"Where  is  my  present  that  Santa  said  he  left  for  me 
in  here  ?"  she  asked. 

"Haven't  seen  anything  in  the  way  of  a  present,"  said 
her  husband,  laughing,  "unless  he  could  have  meant  me." 

The  next  day  Gabriel  Radd,  the  foreman  of  the  X  O 
Ranch,  dropped  into  the  post-office  at  Loma  Alta. 

"Well,  the  Frio  Kid's  got  his  dose  of  lead  at  last,"  he 
remarked  to  the  postmaster. 

"That  so?     How'd  it  happen?" 

"One  of  old  Sanchez's  Mexican  sheep  herders  did  it! 
—  think  of  it!  the  Frio  Kid  killed  by  a  sheep  herder! 
The  Greaser  saw  him  riding  along  past  his  camp  about 
twelve  o'clock  last  night,  and  was  so  skeered  that  he  up 
with  a  Winchester  and  let  him  have  it.  Funniest  part  of 
it  was  that  the  Kid  was  dressed  all  up  with  white  Angora- 
skin  whiskers  and  a  regular  Santy  Claus  rig-out  from  head 
to  foot.  Think  of  the  Frio  Kid  playing  Santy!" 


XXI 
A  LITTLE  LOCAL  COLOUR 

I  MENTIONED  to  Rivington  that  I  was  in  search  of 

characteristic  New  York  scenes  and  incidents  —  some 
thing  typical,  I  told  him,  without  necessarily  having  to 
spell  the  first  syllable  with  an  "i." 

"Oh,  for  your  writing  business,"  said  Rivington;  "you 
couldn't  have  applied  to  a  better  shop.  What  I  don't 
know  about  little  old  New  York  wouldn't  make  a  sonnet 
to  a  sunbonnet.  I'll  put  you  right  in  the  middle  of  so 
much  local  colour  that  you  won't  know  whether  you  are 
a  magazine  cover  or  in  the  erysipelas  ward.  When  do 
you  want  to  begin  ?" 

Rivington  is  a  young-man-about-town  and  a  New 
Yorker  by  birth,  preference  and  incommutability. 

I  told  him  that  I  would  be  glad  to  accept  his  escort  and 
guardianship  so  that  I  might  take  notes  of  Manhattan's 
grand,  gloomy  and  peculiar  idiosyncrasies,  and  that  the 
time  of  so  doing  would  be  at  his  own  convenience. 

"We'll  begin  this  very  evening,"  said  Rivington,  him 
self  interested,  like  a  good  fellow.  "Dine  with  me  at 
seven,  and  then  I'll  steer  you  up  against  metropolitan 
phases  so  thick  you'll  have  to  have  a  kinetoscope  to 
record  'em." 

231 


Whirligigs 

So  I  dined  with  Rivington  pleasantly  at  his  club,  in 
Forty-eleventh  street,  and  then  we  set  forth  in  pursuit 
of  the  elusive  tincture  of  affairs. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  club  there  stood  two  men  on  the 
sidewalk  near  the  steps  in  earnest  conversation. 

"And  by  what  process  of  ratiocination,"  said  one  of 
them,  "do  you  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  the  division 
of  society  into  producing  and  non-possessing  classes 
predicates  failure  when  compared  with  competitive 
systems  that  are  monopolizing  in  tendency  and  result 
inimically  to  industrial  evolution  ?" 

"Oh,  come  off  your  perch!"  said  the  other  man,  who 
wore  glasses.  "Your  premises  won't  come  out  in  the 
wash.  You  wind-jammers  who  apply  bandy-legged 
theories  to  concrete  categorical  syllogisms  send  logical 
conclusions  skallybootin'  into  the  infinitesimal  ragbag. 
You  can't  pull  my  leg  with  an  old  sophism  with  whiskers 
on  it.  You  quote  Marx  and  Hyndman  and  Kautsky  — 
what  are  they  ?  —  shines!  Tolstoi  ?  — his  garret  is  full  of 
rats.  I  put  it  to  you  over  the  home-plate  that  the  idea 
of  a  cooperative  commonwealth  and  an  abolishment  of 
competitive  systems  simply  takes  the  rag  off  the  bush  and 
gives  me  hyperesthesia  of  the  roopteetoop!  The  skoo- 
kuna  house  for  yours!" 

I  stopped  a  few  yards  away  and  took  out  my  little 
notebook. 

"Oh,  come  ahead,"  said  Rivington,  somewhat  ner 
vously;  "you  don't  want  to  listen  to  that." 

"Whj   man,"    I   whispered,  "this  is  just  what  I  do 


A  Little  Local  Colour  233 

want  to  hear.  These  slang  types  are  among  your  city's 
most  distinguishing  features.  Is  this  the  Bowery  variety  ? 
I  really  must  hear  more  of  it." 

"If  I  follow  you,"  said  the  man  who  had  spoken  first, 
"you  do  not  believe  it  possible  to  reorganize  society  on 
the  basis  of  common  interest?" 

"  Shinny  on  your  own  side ! "  said  the  man  with  glasses. 
"You  never  heard  any  such  music  from  my  foghorn. 
What  I  said  was  that  I  did  not  believe  it  practicable  just 
.aow.  The  guys  with  wads  are  not  in  the  frame  of 
mind  to  slack  up  on  the  mazuma,  and  the  man  with  the 
portable  tin  banqueting  canister  isn't  exactly  ready  to 
join  the  Bible  class.  You  can  bet  your  variegated  socks 
that  the  situation  is  all  spifflicated  up  from  the  Battery  to 
breakfast !  What  the  country  needs  is  for  some  bully  old 
bloke  like  Cobden  or  some  wise  guy  like  old  Ben  Frank 
lin  to  sashay  up  to  the  front  and  biff  the  nigger's  head 
with  the  baseball.  Do  you  catch  my  smoke?  What?" 

Rivington  pulled  me  by  the  arm  impatiently. 

"Please  come  on,"  he  said.  "Let's  go  see  something. 
This  isn't  what  you  want." 

"Indeed,  it  is,"  I  said  resisting.  "This  tough  talk  is 
the  very  stuff  that  counts.  There  is  a  picturesqueness 
about  the  speech  of  the  lower  order  of  people  that  is  quite 
unique.  Did  you  say  that  this  is  the  Bowery  variety 
of  slang?" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Rivington,  giving  it  up,  "I'll  tell  you 
straight.  That's  one  of  our  college  professors  talking. 
He  ran  down  for  a  day  or  two  at  the  club.  It's  a  sort 


234  Whirligigs 

of  fad  with  him  lately  to  use  slang  in  his  conversation. 
He  thinks  it  improves  language.  The  man  he  is  talking 
to  is  one  of  New  York's  famous  social  economists.  Now 
will  you  come  on  ?  You  can't  use  that,  you  know." 

"No,"  I  agreed;  "I  can't  use  that.  Would  you  call 
that  typical  of  New  York  ?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Rivington,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"I'm  glad  you  see  the  difference.  But  if  you  want  to 
hear  the  real  old  tough  Bowery  slang  I'll  take  you  down 
where  you'll  get  your  fill  of  it." 

"I  would  like  it,"  I  said;  "that  is,  if  it's  the  real  thing. 
I've  often  read  it  in  books,  but  I  never  heard  it.  Do 
you  think  it  will  be  dangerous  to  go  unprotected  among 
those  characters  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Rivington;  "not  at  this  time  of  night. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  haven't  been  along  the  Bowery  in  a 
long  time,  but  I  know  it  as  well  as  I  do  Broadway.  We'll 
look  up  some  of  the  typical  Bowery  boys  and  get  them  to 
talk.  It'll  be  worth  your  while.  They  talk  a  peculiar 
dialect  that  you  won't  hear  anywhere  else  on  earth." 

Rivington  and  I  went  east  in  a  Forty-second  street  car 
and  then  south  on  the  Third  avenue  line. 

At  Houston  street  we  got  off  and  walked. 

"We  are  now  on  the  famous  Bowery,"  said  Rivington; 
"the  Bowery  celebrated  in  song  and  story." 

We  passed  block  after  block  of  "gents'"  furnishing 
stores  —  the  windows  full  of  shirts  with  prices  attached 
and  cuffs  inside.  In  other  windows  were  neckties  and 
no  shirts.  People  walked  up  and  down  the  sidewalks. 


A  Little  Local  Colour  235 

"In  some  ways,"  said  I,  "this  reminds  me  of  Koko- 
mono,  Ind.,  during  the  peach-crating  season." 

Rivington  was  nettled. 

"Step  into  one  of  these  saloons  or  vaudeville  shows," 
said  he,  "with  a  large  roll  of  money,  and  see  how  quickly 
the  Bowery  will  sustain  its  reputation." 

"You  make  impossible  conditions,"  said  I,  coldly. 

By  and  by  Rivington  stopped  and  said  we  were  in  the 
heart  of  the  Bowery.  There  was  a  policeman  on  the 
corner  whom  Rivington  knew. 

"Hallo,  Donahue!"  said  my  guide.  "How  goes  it? 
My  friend  and  I  are  down  this  way  looking  up  a  bit  of 
local  colour.  He's  anxious  to  meet  one  of  the  Bowery 
types.  Can't  you  put  us  on  to  something  genuine  in  that 
line  —  something  that's  got  the  colour,  you  know  ? " 

Policeman  Donahue  turned  himself  about  ponder 
ously,  his  florid  face  full  of  good-nature.  He  pointed  with 
his  club  down  the  street. 

"Sure!"  he  said  huskily.  "Here  comes  a  lad  now 
that  was  born  on  the  Bowery  and  knows  every  inch  of 
it.  If  he's  ever  been  above  Bleecker  street  he's  kept  it 
to  himself." 

A  man  about  twenty-eight  or  twenty-nine,  with  a  smooth 
face,  was  sauntering  toward  us  with  his  hands  in  his 
coat  pockets.  Policeman  Donahue  stopped  him  with  a 
courteous  wave  of  his  club. 

"Evening,  Kerry,"  he  said.  "Here's  a  couple  of  gents, 
friends  of  mine,  that  want  to  hear  you  spiel  something 
about  the  Bowery.  Can  you  reel  'em  off  a  few  yards?" 


236  Whirligigs 

"Certainly,  Donahue,"  said  the  young  man,  pleas 
antly.  "Good  evening,  gentlemen,"  he  said  to  us, 
with  a  pleasant  smile.  Donahue  walked  off  on  his  beat. 

"This  is  the  goods,"  whispered  Rivington,  nudging 
me  with  his  elbow.  "Look  at  his  jaw!" 

"Say,  cull,"  said  Rivington,  pushing  back  his  hat, 
"wot's  doin'?  Me  and  my  friend's  taking  a  look  down 
de  old  line  —  see  ?  De  copper  tipped  us  off  dat  you  was 
wise  to  de  Bowery.  Is  dat  right  ?" 

I  could  not  help  admiring  Rivington's  power  of  adapt 
ing  himself  to  his  surroundings. 

"Donahue  was  right,"  said  the  young  man,  frankly; 
"I  was  brought  up  on  the  Bowery.  I  have  been  news 
boy,  teamster,  pugilist,  member  of  an  organized  band 
of  'toughs,'  bartender,  and  a  'sport'  in  various  mean 
ings  of  the  word.  The  experience  certainly  warrants  the 
supposition  that  I  have  at  least  a  passing  acquaintance 
with  a  few  phases  of  Bowery  life.  I  will  be  pleased  to 
place  whatever  knowledge  and  experience  I  have  at  the 
service  of  my  friend  Donahue's  friends." 

Rivington  seemed  ill  at  ease. 

"I  say,"  he  said  — somewhat  entreatingly,  "I  thought — 
you're  not  stringing  us,  are  you  ?  It  isn't  just  the  kind 
of  talk  we  expected.  You  haven't  even  said  '  Hully  gee ! ' 
once.  Do  you  really  belong  on  the  Bowery  ?" 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  the  Bowery  boy,  smilingly,  "that 
at  some  time  you  have  been  enticed  into  one  of  the  dives 
of  literature  and  had  the  counterfeit  coin  of  the  Bowery 
passed  upon  you.  The  'argot'  to  which  you  doubtless 


A  Little  Local  Colour  237 

refer  was  the  invention  of  certain  of  your  literary  'dis 
coverers'  who  invaded  the  unknown  wilds  below  Third 
avenue  and  put  strange  sounds  into  the  mouths  of  the 
inhabitants.  Safe  in  their  homes  far  to  the  north  and 
west,  the  credulous  readers  who  were  beguiled  by  this 
new  'dialect'  perused  and  believed.  Like  Marco  Polo 
and  Mungo  Park  — pioneers  indeed,  but  ambitious  souls 
who  could  not  draw  the  line  of  demarcation  between  dis 
covery  and  invention  —  the  literary  bones  of  these 
explorers  are  dotting  the  trackless  wastes  of  the  sub 
way.  While  it  is  true  that  after  the  publication  of  the 
mythical  language  attributed  to  the  dwellers  along  the 
Bowery  certain  of  its  pat  phrases  and  apt  metaphors 
were  adopted  and,  to  a  limited  extent,  used  in  this  locality, 
it  was  because  our  people  are  prompt  in  assimilating 
whatever  is  to  their  commercial  advantage.  To  the 
tourists  who  visited  our  newly  discovered  clime,  and 
who  expected  a  realization  of  their  literary  guide  books, 
they  supplied  the  demands  of  the  market. 

"But  perhaps  I  am  wandering  from  the  question.  In 
what  way  can  I  assist  you,  gentlemen  ?  I  beg  you  will 
believe  that  the  hospitality  of  the  street  is  extended  to 
all.  There  are,  I  regret  to  say,  many  catchpenny  places 
of  entertainment,  but  I  cannot  conceive  that  they  would 
entice  you." 

I  felt  Rivington  lean  somewhat  heavily  against  me. 

"Say!"  he  remarked,  with  uncertain  utterance;  "come 
and  have  a  drink  with  us." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  never  drink.     I  find  that  alcohol, 


238  Whirligigs 

even  in  the  smallest  quantities,  alters  the  perspective. 
And  I  must  preserve  my  perspective,  for  I  am  studying 
the  Bowery.  I  have  lived  in  it  nearly  thirty  years,  and 
I  am  just  beginning  to  understand  its  heartbeats.  It  is 
like  a  great  river  fed  by  a  hundred  alien  streams.  Each 
influx  brings  strange  seeds  on  its  flood,  strange  silt  and 
weeds,  and  now  and  then  a  flower  of  rare  promise.  To 
construe  this  river  requires  a  man  who  can  build  dykes 
against  the  overflow,  who  is  a  naturalist,  a  geologist,  a 
humanitarian,  a  diver  and  a  strong  swimmer.  I  love 
my  Bowery.  It  was  my  cradle  and  is  my  inspiration. 
I  have  published  one  book.  The  critics  have  been  kind. 
I  put  my  heart  in  it.  I  am  writing  another,  into  which 
I  hope  to  put  both  heart  and  brain.  Consider  me  your 
guide,  gentlemen.  Is  there  anything  I  can  take  you  to 
see,  any  place  to  which  I  can  conduct  you  ?  " 

I  was  afraid  to  look  at  Rivington  except  with  one 
eye. 

"Thanks,"  said  Rivington.  "We  were  looking  up 
.  .  .  that  is  ...  my  friend  .  .  .  confound 
it;  it's  against  all  precedent,  you  know  .  .  .  awfully 
obliged  .  .  .  just  the  same." 

"In  case,"  said  our  friend,  "you  would  like  to  meet 
some  of  our  Bowery  young  men  I  would  be  pleased  to 
have  you  visit  the  quarters  of  our  East  Side  Kappa  Delta 
Phi  Society,  only  two  blocks  east  of  here." 

"Awfully  sorry,"  said  Rivington,  "but  my  friend's  got 
me  on  the  jump  to-night.  He's  a  terror  when  he's  out 
after  local  colour.  Now,  there's  nothing  I  would  like 


A  Little  Local  Colour  239 

better  than  to  drop  in  at  the  Kappa  Delta  Phi,  but  — 
some  other  time ! " 

We  said  our  farewells  and  boarded  a  home-bound  car. 
We  had  a  rabbit  on  upper  Broadway,  and  then  I  parted 
with  Rivington  on  a  street  corner. 

"Well,  anyhow,"  said  he,  braced  and  recovered,  "it 
couldn't  have  happened  anywhere  but  in  little  old  New 
York." 

Which  to  say  the  least,  was  typical  of  Rivington. 


XXII 
GEORGIA'S  RULING 

IF  YOU  should  chance  to  visit  the  General  Land  Office, 
step  into  the  draughtsmen's  room  and  ask  to  be  shown 
the  map  of  Salado  County.  A  leisurely  German  —  pos 
sibly  old  Kampfer  himself  —  will  bring  it  to  you.  It  will 
be  four  feet  square,  on  heavy  drawing-cloth.  The  lettering 
and  the  figures  will  be  beautifully  clear  and  distinct. 
The  title  will  be  in  splendid,  undecipherable  German 
text,  ornamented  with  classic  Teutonic  designs  —  very 
likely  Ceres  or  Pomona  leaning  against  the  initial  letters 
with  cornucopias  venting  grapes  and  wieners.  You 
must  tell  him  that  this  is  not  the  map  you  wish  to  see; 
that  he  will  kindly  bring  you  its  official  predecessor. 
He  will  then  say,  "Ach,  so!"  and  bring  out  a  map 
half  the  size  of  the  first,  dim,  old,  tattered,  and 
faded. 

By  looking  carefully  near  its  northwest  corner  you  will 
presently  come  upon  the  worn  contours  of  Chiquito 
River,  and,  maybe,  if  your  eyes  are  good,  discern  the 
silent  witness  to  this  story. 

The  Commissioner  of  the  Land  Office  was  of  the  old 
style;  his  antique  courtesy  was  too  formal  for  his  day. 

240 


Georgia's  Ruling  241 

He  dressed  in  fine  black,  and  there  was  a  suggestion  of 
Roman  drapery  in  his  long  coat-skirts.  His  collars  were 
"undetached"  (blame  haberdashery  for  the  word);  his 
tie  was  a  narrow,  funereal  strip,  tied  in  the  same  knot  as 
were  his  shoe-strings.  His  gray  hair  was  a  trifle  too  long 
behind,  but  he  kept  it  smooth  and  orderly.  His  face  was 
clean-shaven,  like  the  old  statesmen's.  Most  people 
thought  it  a  stern  face,  but  when  its  official  expression  was 
off,  a  few  had  seen  altogether  a  different  countenance. 
Especially  tender  and  gentle  it  had  appeared  to  those 
who  were  about  him  during  the  last  illness  of  his  only 
child. 

The  Commissioner  had  been  a  widower  for  years,  and 
his  life,  outside  his  official  duties,  had  been  so  devoted 
to  little  Georgia  that  people  spoke  of  it  as  a  touching  and 
admirable  thing.  He  was  a  reserved  man,  and  dignified 
almost  to  austerity,  but  the  child  had  come  below  it  all 
and  rested  upon  his  very  heart,  so  that  she  scarcely  missed 
the  mother's  love  that  had  been  taken  away.  There  was 
a  wonderful  companionship  between  them,  for  she  had 
many  of  his  own  ways,  being  thoughtful  and  serious 
beyond  her  years. 

One  day,  while  she  was  lying  with  the  fever  burning 
brightly  in  her  cheeks,  she  said  suddenly: 

"Papa,  I  wish  I  could  do  something  good  for  a  whole 
lot  of  children!" 

"What  would  you  like  to  do,  dear?"  asked  the  Com 
missioner.  "Give  them  a  party?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  those  kind.     I  mean  poor  children 


242  Whirligigs 

who  haven't  homes,  and  aren't  loved  and  cared  for  as 
I  am.  I  tell  you  what,  papa!" 

"What,  my  own  child  ?" 

"If  I  shouldn't  get  well,  I'll  leave  them  you — not 
give  you,  but  just  lend  you,  for  you  must  come  to  mamma 
and  me  when  you  die  too.  If  you  can  find  time,  wouldn't 
you  do  something  to  help  them,  if  I  ask  you,  papa?" 

"Hush,  hush  dear,  dear  child,"  said  the  Commissioner, 
holding  her  hot  little  hand  against  his  cheek;  "you'll 
get  well  real  soon,  and  you  and  I  will  see  what  we  can 
do  for  them  together." 

But  in  whatsoever  paths  of  benevolence,  thus  vaguely 
premeditated,  the  Commissioner  might  tread,  he  was 
not  to  have  the  company  of  his  beloved.  That  night 
the  little  frail  body  grew  suddenly  too  tired  to  struggle 
further,  and  Georgia's  exit  was  made  from  the  great  stage 
when  she  had  scarcely  begun  to  speak  her  little  piece 
before  the  footlights.  But  there  must  be  a  stage  manager 
who  understands.  She  had  given  the  cue  to  the  one  who 
was  to  speak  after  her. 

A  week  after  she  was  laid  away,  the  Commissioner 
reappeared  at  ihe  office,  a  little  more  courteous,  a  little 
paler  and  sterner,  with  the  black  frock-coat  hanging  a 
little  more  loosely  from  his  tall  figure. 

His  desk  was  piled  with  work  that  had  accumulated 
during  the  four  heartbreaking  weeks  of  his  absence.  His 
chief  clerk  had  done  what  he  could,  but  there  were  ques 
tions  of  law,  of  fine  judicial  decisions  to  be  made  concern 
ing  the  issue  of  patents,  the  marketing  and  leasing  of 


Georgia's  Ruling  243 

school  lands,  the  classification  into  grazing,  agricultural, 
watered,  and  timbered,  of  new  tracts  to  be  opened  to 
settlers. 

The  Commissioner  went  to  work  silently  and  ob 
stinately,  outting  back  his  grief  as  far  as  possible,  forcing 
his  mind  to  attack  the  complicated  and  important  busi 
ness  of  his  office.  On  the  second  day  after  his  return  he 
called  the  porter,  pointed  to  a  leather-covered  chair  that 
stood  near  his  own,  and  ordered  it  removed  to  a  lumber- 
room  at  the  top  of  the  building.  In  that  chair  Georgia 
would  always  sit  when  she  came  to  the  office  for  him  of 
afternoons. 

As  time  passed,  the  Commissioner  seemed  to  grow  more 
silent,  solitary,  and  reserved.  A  new  phase  of  mind 
developed  in  him.  He  could  not  endure  the  presence 
of  a  child.  Often  when  a  clattering  youngster  belonging 
to  one  of  the  clerks  would  come  chattering  into  the  big 
business-room  adjoining  his  little  apartment,  the  Com 
missioner  would  steal  softly  and  close  the  door.  He 
would  always  cross  the  street  to  avoid  meeting  the  school 
children  when  they  came  dancing  along  in  happy  groups 
upon  the  sidewalk,  and  his  firm  mouth  would  close  into 
a  mere  line. 

It  was  nearly  three  months  after  the  rains  had  washed 
the  last  dead  flower-petals  from  the  mound  above  little 
Georgia  when  the  "land-shark"  firm  of  Hamlin  and 
Avery  filed  papers  upon  what  they  considered  the  "fattest" 
vacancy  of  the  year. 

It  should  not  be  supposed  that  all  who  were  termed 


244  Whirligigs 

"land-sharks"  deserved  the  name.  Many  of  them  were 
reputable  men  of  good  business  character.  Some  of 
them  could  walk  into  the  most  august  councils  of  the 
State  and  say:  "Gentlemen,  we  would  like  to  ha^e  this, 
and  that,  and  matters  go  thus."  But,  next  to  a  three 
years'  drought  and  the  boll-worm,  the  Actual  Settler 
hated  the  Land-shark.  The  land-shark  haunted  the 
Land  Office,  wThere  all  the  land  records  were  kept, 
and  hunted  "vacancies" — that  is,  tracts  of  unappro 
priated  public  domain,  generally  invisible  upon  the 
official  maps,  but  actually  existing  "upon  the  ground." 
The  law  entitled  any  one  possessing  certain  State  scrip 
to  file  by  virtue  of  same  upon  any  land  not  previously 
legally  appropriated.  Most  of  the  scrip  was  now  in  the 
hands  of  the  land-sharks.  Thus,  at  the  cost  of  a  few 
hundred  dollars,  they  often  secured  lands  worth  as  many 
thousands.  Naturally,  the  search  for  "vacancies"  was 
lively. 

But  often — very  often — the  land  they  thus  secured, 
though  legally  "unappropriated,"  would  be  occupied 
by  happy  and  contented  settlers,  who  had  laboured  for 
years  to  build  up  their  homes,  only  to  discover  that  their 
titles  were  worthless,  and  to  receive  peremptory  notice 
to  quit.  Thus  came  about  the  bitter  and  not  unjustifiable 
hatred  felt  by  the  toiling  settlers  toward  the  shrewd  and 
seldom  merciful  speculators  who  so  often  turned  them 
forth  destitute  and  homeless  from  their  fruitless  labours. 
The  history  of  the  state  teems  with  their  antagonism. 
Mr.  Land-shark  seldom  showed  his  face  on  "locations" 


Georgia's  Ruling  245 

from  which  he  should  have  to  eject  the  unfortunate  victims 
of  a  monstrously  tangled  land  system,  but  let  his  emis 
saries  do  the  work.  There  was  lead  in  every  cabin, 
moulded  into  balls  for  him;  many  of  his  brothers  had 
enriched  the  grass  with  their  blood.  The  fault  of  it  all 
lay  far  back. 

When  the  state  was  young,  she  felt  the  need  of  attract 
ing  newcomers,  and  of  rewarding  those  pioneers  already 
within  her  borders.  Year  after  year  she  issued  land  scrip 

—  Hcadrights,  Bounties,  Veteran  Donations,  Confeder 
ates;    and  to  railroads,   irrigation  companies,   colonies, 
and  tillers  of  the  soil  galore.     All  required  of  the  grantee 
was  that  he  or  it  should  have  the  scrip  properly  surveyed 
upon  the  public  domain  by  the  county  or  district  surveyor, 
and  the  land  thus  appropriated  became  the  property  of 
him  or  it,  or  his  or  its  heirs  and  assigns,   orever. 

In  those  days  —  and  here  is  where  the  trouble  began 

—  the  state's  domain  was  practically  inexhaustible,   and 
the   old   surveyors,   with   princely — yea,   even   Western 
American  —  liberality,    gave    good    measure    and    over 
flowing.     Often   the  jovial  man  of  metes   and   bounds 
would  dispense  altogether  with  the  tripod  and   chain. 
Mounted  on  a  pony  that  could  cover  something  near  a 
"vara"  at  a  step,  with  a  pocket  compass  to  direct  his 
course,  he  would  trot  out  a  survey  by  counting  the  beat 
of  his  pony's  hoofs,  mark  his  corners,  and  write  out  his 
field  notes  with  the  complacency  produced  by  an  act  of 
duty    well     performed.     Sometimes  —  and     who     could 
blame  the  surveyor?  — when  the  pony  was  "feeling  his 


246  Whirligigs 

oats,"  he  might  step  a  little  higher  and  farther,  and  in 
that  case  the  beneficiary  of  the  scrip  might  get  a  thousand 
or  two  more  acres  in  his  survey  than  the  scrip  called  for. 
But  look  at  the  boundless  leagues  the  state  had  to  spare! 
However,  no  one  ever  had  to  complain  of  the  pony  under- 
stepping.  Nearly  every  old  survey  in  the  state  con 
tained  an  excess  of  land. 

In  later  years,  when  the  state  became  more  populous, 
and  land  values  increased,  this  careless  work  entailed 
incalculable  trouble,  endless  litigation,  a  period  of  riotous 
land-grabbing,  and  no  little  bloodshed.  The  land- 
sharks  voraciously  attacked  these  excesses  in  the  old 
surveys,  and  filed  upon  such  portions  with  new  scrip  as 
unappropriated  public  domain.  Wherever  the  identi 
fications  of  the  old  tracts  were  vague,  and  the  corners 
were  not  to  be  clearly  established,  the  Land  Office  would 
recognize  the  newer  locations  as  valid,  and  issue  title  to 
the  locators.  Here  was  the  greatest  hardship  to  be  found. 
These  old  surveys,  taken  from  the  pick  of  the  land,  were 
already  nearly  all  occupied  by  unsuspecting  and  peaceful 
settlers,  and  thus  their  titles  were  demolished,  and  the 
choice  was  placed  before  them  either  to  buy  their  land 
over  at  a  double  price  or  to  vacate  it,  with  their  families 
and  personal  belongings,  immediately.  Land  locators 
sprang  up  by  hundreds.  The  country  was  held  up  and 
searched  for  "vacancies"  at  the  point  of  a  compass. 
Hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  splendid 
acres  were  wrested  from  their  innocent  purchasers  and 
holders.  There  began  a  vast  hcgira  of  evicted  settlers 


Georgia's  Ruling  247 

in  tattered  wagons;  going  nowhere,  cursing  injustice, 
stunned,  purposeless,  homeless,  hopeless.  Their  children 
began  to  look  up  to  them  for  bread,  and  cry. 

It  was  in  consequence  of  these  conditions  that  Hamil 
ton  and  Avery  had  filed  upon  a  strip  of  land  about  a  mile 
wide  and  three  miles  long,  comprising  about  two  thou 
sand  acres,  it  being  the  excess  over  complement  of  the 
Elias  Denny  three-league  survey  on  Chiquito  River,  in 
one  of  the  middle-western  counties.  This  two- thousand- 
acre  body  of  land  was  asserted  by  them  to  be  vacant  land, 
and  improperly  considered  a  part  of  the  Denny  survey. 
They  based  this  assertion  and  their  claim  upon  the  land 
upon  the  demonstrated  facts  that  the  beginning  corner 
of  the  Denny  survey  was  plainly  identified;  that  its  field 
notes  called  to  run  west  5,760  varas,  and  then  called  for 
Chiquito  River;  thence  it  ran  south,  with  the  meanders 

—  and  so  on  —  and  that  the  Chiquito  River  was,  on  the 
ground,  fully  a  mile  farther  west  from  the  point  reached 
by  course  and  distance.     To  sum  up:    there  were  two 
thousand  acres  of  vacant  land  between  the  Denny  survey 
proper  and  Chiquito  River. 

One  sweltering  day  in  July  the  Commissioner  called 
for  the  papers  in  connection  with  this  new  location. 
They  were  brought,  and  heaped,  a  foot  deep,  upon  his  desk 

—  field  notes,  statements,  sketches,  affidavits,  connecting 
lines  —  documents  of  every  description  that  shrewdness 
and  money  could  call  to  the  aid  of  Hamlin  and  Avery. 

The  firm  was  pressing  the  Commissioner  to  issue  a 


248  Whirligigs 

patent  upon  their  location.  They  possessed  inside  infor 
mation  concerning  a  new  railroad  that  would  probably 
pass  somewhere  near  this  land. 

The  General  Land  Office  was  very  still  while  the  Com 
missioner  was  delving  into  the  heart  of  the  mass  or  evi 
dence.  The  pigeons  could  be  heard  on  the  roof  of  the 
old,  castle-like  building,  cooing  and  fretting.  The  clerks 
were  droning  everywhere,  scarcely  pretending  to  earn 
their  salaries.  Each  little  sound  echoed  hollow  and  loud 
from  the  bare,  stone-flagged  floors,  the  plastered  walls,  and 
the  iron-joisted  ceiling.  The  impalpable,  perpetual  lime 
stone  dust  that  never  settled,  whitened  a  long  streamer  of 
sunlight  that  pierced  the  tattered  window-awning. 

It  seemed  that  Hamlin  and  Avery  had  builded  well. 
The  Denny  survey  was  carelessly  made,  even  for  a  care 
less  period.  Its  beginning  corner  was  identical  with 
that  of  a  well-defined  old  Spanish  grant,  but  its  other 
calls  were  sinfully  vague.  The  field  notes  contained  no 
other  object  that  survived  —  no  tree,  no  natural  object 
save  Chiquito  River,  and  it  was  a  mile  wrong  there. 
According  to  precedent,  the  Office  would  be  justified  in 
giving  it  its  complement  by  course  and  distance,  and 
considering  the  remainder  vacant  instead  of  a  mere  excess. 

The  Actual  Settler  was  besieging  the  office  with  wild 
protests  in  re.  Having  the  nose  of  a  pointer  and  the  eye 
of  a  hawk  for  the  land-shark,  he  had  observed  his  myrmi 
dons  running  the  lines  upon  his  ground.  Making  inquiries, 
he  learned  that  the  spoiler  had  attacked  his  home,  and  he 
left  the  plough  in  the  furrow  and  took  his  pen  in  hand. 


Georgia's  Ruling  249 

One  of  the  protests  the  Commissioner  read  twice.  It 
was  from  a  woman,  a  widow,  the  granddaughter  of  Elias 
Denny  himself.  She  told  how  her  grandfather  had  sold 
most  of  the  survey  years  before  at  a  trivial  price  —  land 
that  was  now  a  principality  in  extent  and  value.  Her 
mother  had  also  sold  a  part,  and  she  herself  had  suc 
ceeded  to  this  western  portion,  along  Chiquito  River. 
Much  of  it  she  had  been  forced  to  part  with  in  order  to 
live,  and  now  she  owned  only  about  three  hundred  acres, 
on  which  she  had  her  home.  Her  letter  wound  up  rather 
pathetically: 

"I've  got  eight  children,  the  oldest  fifteen  years.  I 
work  all  day  and  half  the  night  to  till  what  little  land  I  can 
and  keep  us  in  clothes  and  bocks.  I  teach  my  children 
too.  My  neighbours  is  all  poor  and  has  big  families. 
The  drought  kills  the  crops  every  two  or  three  years  and 
then  wre  has  hard  times  to  get  enough  to  eat.  There  is 
ten  families  on  this  land  what  the  land-sharks  is  trying 
to  rob  us  of,  and  all  of  them  got  titles  from  me.  I  sold 
to  them  cheap,  and  they  aint  paid  out  yet,  but  part  of 
them  is,  and  if  their  land  should  be  took  from  them  I  would 
die.  My  grandfather  was  an  honest  man,  and  he  helped 
to  build  up  this  state,  and  he  taught  his  children  to  be 
honest,  and  how  could  I  make  it  up  to  them  who  bought 
from  me  ?  Mr.  Commissioner,  if  you  let  them  land-sharks 
take  the  roof  from  over  my  children  and  the  little  from 
them  as  they  has  to  live  on,  whoever  again  calls  this  state 
great  or  its  government  just  will  have  a  lie  in  their 
mouths." 


250  Whirligigs 

The  Commissioner  laid  this  letter  aside  with  a  sigh. 
Many,  many  such  letters  he  had  received.  He  had  never 
been  hurt  by  them,  nor  had  he  ever  felt  that  they  appealed 
to  him  personally.  He  was  but  the  state's  servant,  and 
must  follow  its  laws.  And  yet,  somehow,  this  reflection 
did  not  always  eliminate  a  certain  responsible  feeling 
that  hung  upon  him.  Of  all  the  state's  officers  he  was 
supremest  in  his  department,  not  even  excepting  the 
Governor.  Broad,  general  land  laws  he  followed,  it  was 
true,  but  he  had  a  wide  latitude  in  particular  ramifica 
tions.  Rather  than  law,  what  he  followed  was  Rulings: 
Office  Rulings  and  precedents.  In  the  complicated  and 
new  questions  that  were  being  engendered  by  the  state's 
development  the  Commissioner's  ruling  was  rarely 
appealed  from.  Even  the  courts  sustained  it  when  its 
equity  was  apparent. 

The  Commissioner  stepped  to  the  door  and  spoke  to  a 
clerk  in  the  other  room  —  spoke  as  he  always  did,  as  if 
he  were  addressing  a  prince  of  the  blood: 

"Mr.  Weldon,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  ask  Mr. 
Ashe,  the  state  school-land  appraiser,  to  please  come  to 
my  office  as  soon  as  convenient  ?" 

Ashe  came  quickly  from  the  big  table  where  he  was 
arranging  his  reports. 

"Mr.  Ashe,"  said  the  Commissioner,  "you  worked 
along  the  Chiquito  River,  in  Salado  County,  during  your 
last  trip,  I  believe.  Do  you  remember  anything  of  the 
Elias  Denny  three-league  survey?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  do,"  the  blunt,  breezy  surveyor  answered. 


Georgia's  Ruling  251 

"I  crossed  it  on  my  way  to  Block  H,  on  the  north  side  of 
it.  The  road  runs  with  the  Chiquito  River,  along  the 
valley.  The  Denny  survey  fronts  three  miles  on  the 
Chiquito." 

"It  is  claimed,"  continued  the  Commissioner,  "that 
it  fails  to  reach  the  river  by  as  much  as  a  mile." 

The  appraiser  shrugged  his  shoulder.  He  was  by  birth 
and  instinct  an  Actual  Settler,  and  the  natural  foe  of  the 
land-shark. 

"It  has  always  been  considered  to  extend  to  the  river," 
he  said,  dryly. 

"  But  that  is  not  the  point  I  desired  to  discuss,"  said  the 
Commissioner.  "What  kind  of  country  is  this  valley 
portion  of  (let  us  say,  then)  the  Denny  tract?" 

The  spirit  of  the  Actual  Settler  beamed  in  Ashe's  face. 

"Beautiful,"  he  said,  with  enthusiasm.  "Valley  as 
level  as  this  floor,  with  just  a  little  swell  on,  like  the  sea, 
and  rich  as  cream.  Just  enough  brakes  to  shelter  the 
cattle  in  winter.  Black  loamy  soil  for  six  feet,  and  then 
clay.  Holds  water.  A  dozen  nice  little  houses  on  it, 
with  windmills  and  gardens.  People  pretty  poor,  I 
guess  —  too  far  from  market  —  but  comfortable.  Never 
saw  so  many  kids  in  my  life." 

"They  raise  flocks?"  inquired  the  Commissioner. 

"Ho,  ho!  I  mean  two-legged  kids,"  laughed  the 
surveyor ;  "two-legged,  and  bare-legged,  and  tow-headed." 

"Children!  oh,  children!"  mused  the  Commissioner, 
as  though  a  new  view  had  opened  to  him;  "they  raise 
children!" 


252  Whirligigs 

"It's  a  lonesome  country,  Commissioner,"  said  the 
surveyor.  "Can  you  blame  'em?" 

"I  suppose,"  continued  the  Commissioner,  slowly,  as 
one  carefully  pursues  deductions  from  a  new,  stupendous 
theory,  "not  all  of  them  are  tow-headed.  It  would  not 
be  unreasonable,  Mr.  Ashe,  I  conjecture,  to  believe  that 
a  portion  of  them  have  brown,  or  even  black,  hair." 

"Brown  and  black,  sure,"  said  Ashe;    "also  red." 

"No  doubt,"  said  the  Commissioner.  "Well,  I  thank 
you  for  your  courtesy  in  informing  me,  Mr.  Ashe.  I  will 
not  detain  you  any  longer  from  your  duties." 

Later,  in  the  afternoon,  came  Hamlin  and  Avery,  big, 
handsome,  genial,  sauntering  men,  clothed  in  white  duck 
and  low-cut  shoes.  They  permeated  the  whole  office 
with  an  aura  of  debonair  prosperity.  They  passed  among 
the  clerks  and  left  a  wake  of  abbreviated  given  names  and 
fat  brown  cigars. 

These  were  the  aristocracy  of  the  land-sharks,  who 
went  in  for  big  things.  Full  of  serene  confidence  in  them 
selves,  there  was  no  corporation,  no  syndicate,  no  rail 
road  company  or  attorney  general  too  big  for  them  to 
tackle.  The  peculiar  smoke  of  their  rare,  fat  brown  cigars 
was  to  be  perceived  in  the  sanctum  of  every  department 
of  state,  in  every  committee-room  of  the  Legislature,  in 
every  bank  parlour  and  every  private  caucus-room  in 
the  state  Capital.  Always  pleasant,  never  in  a  hurry,  in 
seeming  to  possess  unlimited  leisure,  people  wondered 
when  they  gave  their  attention  to  the  many  audacious 
enterprises  in  which  they  were  known  to  be  engaged. 


Georgia's  Ruling  253 

By  and  by  the  two  dropped  carelessly  into  the  Com 
missioner's  room  and  reclined  lazily  in  the  big,  leather- 
upholstered  arm-chairs.  They  drawled  a  good-natured 
complaint  of  the  weather,  and  Hamlin  told  the  Com 
missioner  an  excellent  story  he  had  amassed  that  morn 
ing  from  the  Secretary  of  State. 

But  the  Commissioner  knew  why  they  were  there.  He 
had  half  promised  to  render  a  decision  that  day  upon 
their  location. 

The  chief  clerk  now  brought  in  a  batch  of  duplicate 
certificates  for  the  Commissioner  to  sign.  As  he  traced 
his  sprawling  signature,  "Hollis  Summerfield,  Comr. 
Genl.  Land  Office,"  on  each  one,  the  chief  clerk  stood, 
deftly  removing  them  and  applying  the  blotter. 

"I  notice,"  said  the  chief  clerk,  "you've  been  going 
through  that  Salado  County  location.  Kampfer  is  mak 
ing  a  new  map  of  Salado,  and  I  believe  is  platting  in  that 
section  of  the  county  now." 

"I  will  see  it,"  said  the  Commissioner.  A  few  moments 
later  he  went  to  the  draughtsmen's  room. 

As  he  entered  he  saw  five  or  six  of  the  draughtsmen 
grouped  about  Kampfer's  desk,  gargling  away  at  each 
other  in  pectoral  German,  and  gazing  at  something  there 
upon.  At  the  Commissioner's  approach  they  scattered 
to  their  several  places.  Kampfer,  a  wizened  little  Ger 
man,  with  long,  frizzled  ringlets  and  a  watery  eye,  began 
to  stammer  forth  some  sort  of  an  apology,  the  Commis 
sioner  thought,  for  the  congregation  of  his  fellows  about 
his  desk. 


254  Whirligigs 

"Never  mind,  '  said  the  Commissioner,  "I  wish  to 
see  the  map  you  are  making";  and,  passing  around  the 
old  German,  seated  himself  upon  the  high  draughtsman's 
stool.  Kampfer  continued  to  break  English  in  trying  to 
explain. 

"Herr  Gommissioner,  I  assure  you  blenty  sat  I  haf 
not  it  bremeditated  —  sat  it  wass  —  sat  it  itself  make. 
Look  you !  from  se  field  notes  wass  it  blatted  —  blease 
to  observe  se  calls:  South,  10  degrees  west  I  050  varas; 
south,  10  degrees  east  300  varas;  south,  100;  south,  9 
west,  200;  south,  40  degrees  west  400 — and  so  on, 
Herr  Gommissioner,  nefer  would  I  have " 

The  Commissioner  raised  one  white  hand,  silently. 
Kampfer  dropped  his  pipe  and  fled. 

With  a  hand  at  each  side  of  his  face,  and  his  elbows 
resting  upon  the  desk,  the  Commissioner  sat  staring  at 
the  map  which  was  spread  and  fastened  there  —  staring 
at  the  sweet  and  living  profile  of  little  Georgia  drawn 
thereupon  —  at  her  face,  pensive,  delicate,  and  infantile, 
outlined  in  a  perfect  likeness. 

When  his  mind  at  length  came  to  inquire  into  the  rea 
son  of  it,  he  saw  that  it  must  have  been,  as  Kampfer  had 
said,  unpremeditated.  The  old  draughtsman  had  been 
platting  in  the  Elias  Denny  survey,  and  Georgia's  likeness, 
striking  though  it  was,  was  formed  by  nothing  more  than 
the  meanders  of  Chiquito  River.  Indeed,  Kampfer's 
blotter,  whereon  his  preliminary  work  was  done,  showed 
the  laborious  tracings  of  the  calls  and  the  countless 
pricks  of  the  compasses.  Then,  over  his  faint  pencilling, 


Georgia's  Ruling  255 

Kampfer  had  drawn  in  India  ink  with  a  full,  firm  pen  the 
similitude  of  Chiquito  River,  and  forth  had  blossomed 
mysteriously  the  dainty,  pathetic  profile  of  the  child. 

The  Commissioner  sat  for  half  an  hour  with  his  face 
in  his  hands,  gazing  downward,  and  none  dared  approach 
him.  Then  he  arose  and  walked  out.  In  the  business 
office  he  paused  long  enough  to  ask  that  the  Denny  file 
be  brought  to  his  desk. 

He  found  Hamlin  and  Avery  still  reclining  in  their 
chairs,  apparently  oblivious  of  business.  They  were 
lazily  discussing  summer  opera,  it  being  their  habit  — 
perhaps  their  pride  also  —  to  appear  supernaturally 
indifferent  whenever  they  stood  with  large  interests 
imperilled.  And  they  stood  to  win  more  on  this  stake 
than  most  people  knew.  They  possessed  inside  infor 
mation  to  the  effect  that  a  new  railroad  would,  within  a 
year,  split  this  very  Chiquito  River  valley  and  send  land 
values  ballooning  all  along  its  route.  A  dollar  under 
thirty  thousand  profit  on  this  location,  if  it  should  hold 
good,  would  be  a  loss  to  their  expectations.  So,  while 
they  chatted  lightly  and  waited  for  the  Commissioner 
to  open  the  subject,  there  was  a  quick,  sidelong  sparkle 
in  their  eyes,  evincing  a  desire  to  read  their  title  clear 
to  those  fair  acres  on  the  Chiquito. 

A  clerk  brought  in  the  file.  The  Commissioner  seated 
himself  and  wrote  upon  it  in  red  ink.  Then  he  rose  to 
his  feet  and  stood  for  a  while  looking  straight  out  of  the 
window.  The  Land  Office  capped  the  summit  of  a  bold 
Jhill.  The  eyes  of  the  Commissioner  passed  over  the 


256  Whirligigs 

roofs  of  many  houses  set  in  a  packing  of  deep  green,  the 
whole  checkered  by  strips  of  blinding  white  streets.  The 
horizon,  where  his  gaze  was  focussed,  swelled  to  a  fair 
wooded  eminence  flecked  with  faint  dots  of  shining  white. 
There  was  the  cemetery,  where  lay  many  who  were  forgot 
ten,  and  a  few  who  had  not  lived  in  vain.  And  one  lay 
there,  occupying  very  small  space,  whose  childish  heart 
had  been  large  enough  to  desire,  while  near  its  last  beats, 
good  to  others.  The  Commissioner's  lips  moved  slightly 
as  he  whispered  to  himself:  "It  was  her  last  will  and 
testament,  and  I  have  neglected  it  so  long!" 

The  big  brown  cigars  of  Hamlin  and  Avery  were  fireless, 
but  they  still  gripped  them  between  their  teeth  and  waited, 
while  they  marvelled  at  the  absent  expression  upon  the 
Commissioner's  face. 

By  and  by  he  spoke  suddenly  and  promptly. 

"Gentlemen,  I  have  just  indorsed  the  Elias  Denny 
survey  for  patenting.  This  office  will  not  regard  your 
location  upon  a  part  of  it  as  legal."  He  paused  a  moment, 
and  then,  extending  his  hand  as  those  dear  old-time  ones 
used  to  do  in  debate,  he  enunciated  the  spirit  of  that 
Ruling  that  subsequently  drove  the  land-sharks  to  the 
wall,  and  placed  the  seal  of  peace  and  security  over  the 
doors  of  ten  thousand  homes. 

"And,  furthermore,"  he  continued,  with  a  clear,  soft 
light  upon  his  face,  "it  may  interest  you  to  know  that  from 
this  time  on  this  office  will  consider  that  when  a  survey 
of  land  made  by  virtue  of  a  certificate  granted  by  this 
state  to  the  men  who  wrested  it  from  the  wilderness  and 


Georgia's  Ruling  257 

the  savage  —  made  in  good  faith,  settled  in  good  faith, 
and  left  in  good  faith  to  their  children  or  innocent  pur 
chasers  —  when  such  a  survey,  although  overrunning 
its  complement,  shall  call  for  any  natural  object  visible 
to  the  eye  of  man,  to  that  object  it  shall  hold,  and  be  good 
and  valid.  And  the  children  of  this  state  shall  lie  down  to 
sleep  at  night,  and  rumours  of  disturbers  of  title  shall  not 
disquiet  them.  For,"  concluded  the  Commissioner, 
"of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  a  laugh  floated  up  from 
the  patent-room  below.  The  man  who  carried  down  the 
Denny  file  was  exhibiting  it  among  the  clerks. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  delightedly,  "the  old  man  has 
forgotten  his  name.  He's  written  'Patent  to  original 
grantee,'  and  signed  it  'Georgia  Summerfield,  Comr.'" 

The  speech  of  the  Commissioner  rebounded  lightly 
from  the  impregnable  Hamlin  and  Avery.  They  smiled, 
rose  gracefully,  spoke  of  the  baseball  team,  and  argued 
feelingly  that  quite  a  perceptible  breeze  had  arisen  from 
the  east.  They  lit  fresh  fat  brown  cigars,  and  drifted 
courteously  away.  But  later  they  made  another  tiger- 
spring  for  their  quarry  in  the  courts.  But  the  courts, 
according  to  reports  in  the  papers,  "coolly  roasted 
them"  (a  remarkable  performance,  suggestive  of 
liquid-air  didoes),  and  sustained  the  Commissioner's 
Ruling. 

And  this  Ruling  itself  grew  to  be  a  Precedent,  and  the 
Actual  Settler  framed  it,  and  taught  his  children  to  spell 
from  it,  and  there  was  sound  sleep  o'  nights  from  the  pines 


258  Whirligigs 

to  the  sage-brush,  and  from  the  chaparral  to  the  great 
brown  river  of  the  north. 

But  I  think,  and  I  am  sure  the  Commissioner  never 
thought  otherwise,  that  whether  Kampfer  was  a  snuffy 
old  instrument  of  destiny,  or  whether  the  meanders  of  the 
Chiquito  accidentally  platted  themselves  into  that  memo 
rable  sweet  profile  or  not,  there  was  brought  about  "some 
thing  good  for  a  whole  lot  of  children,"  and  the  result 
ought  to  be  called  "Georgia's  Ruling." 


XXIII 
BLIND  MAN'S  HOLIDAY 

ALAS  for  the  man  and  for  the  artist  with  the  shifting 
point  of  perspective!  Life  shall  be  a  confusion  of  ways 
to  the  one;  the  landscape  shall  rise  up  and  confound  the 
other.  Take  the  case  of  Lorison.  At  one  time  he 
appeared  to  himself  to  be  the  feeblest  of  fools;  at  another 
he  conceived  that  he  followed  ideals  so  fine  that  the  world 
was  not  yet  ready  to  accept  them.  During  one  mood  he 
cursed  his  folly;  possessed  by  the  other,  he  bore  himself 
with  a  serene  grandeur  akin  to  greatness:  in  neither  did 
he  attain  the  perspective. 

Generations  before,  the  name  had  been  "Larsen." 
His  race  had  bequeathed  him  its  fine-strung,  melancholy 
temperament,  its  saving  balance  of  thrift  and  industry. 

From  his  point  of  perspective  he  saw  himself  an  outcast 
from  society,  forever  to  be  a  shady  skulker  along  the 
ragged  edge  of  respectability;  a  denizen  des  trois-quartz 
de  monde,  that  pathetic  spheroid  lying  between  the  haul 
and  the  demi,  whose  inhabitants  envy  each  of  their  neigh 
bours,  and  are  scorned  by  both.  He  was  self-condemned 
to  this  opinion,  as  he  was  self-exiled,  through  it,  to  this 
quaint  Southern  city  a  thousand  miles  from  his  former 
home.  Here  he  had  dwelt  for  longer  than  a  year,  know- 

259 


260  Whirligigs 

ing  but  few,  keeping  in  a  subjective  world  of  shadows 
which  was  invaded  at  times  by  the  perplexing  bulks  of 
jarring  realities.  Then  he  fell  in  love  with  a  girl  whom 
he  met  in  a  cheap  restaurant,  and  his  story  begins. 

The  Rue  Chartres,  in  New  Orleans,  is  a  street  of  ghosts. 
It  lies  in  the  quarter  where  the  Frenchman,  in  his  prime, 
set  up  his  translated  pride  and  glory;  where,  also,  the 
arrogant  don  had  swaggered,  and  dreamed  of  gold  and 
grants  and  ladies'  gloves.  Every  flagstone  has  its  grooves 
worn  by  footsteps  going  royally  to  the  wooing  and  the 
fighting.  Every  house  has  a  princely  heartbreak;  each 
doorway  its  untold  tale  of  gallant  promise  and  slow  decay. 

By  night  the  Rue  Chartres  is  now  but  a  murky  fissure, 
from  which  the  groping  wayfarer  sees,  flung  against  the 
sky,  the  tangled  filigree  of  Moorish  iron  balconies.  The 
old  houses  of  monsieur  stand  yet.  indomitable  against  the 
century,  but  their  essence  is  gone.  The  street  is  one  of 
ghosts  to  whosoever  can  see  them. 

A  faint  heartbeat  of  the  street's  ancient  glory  still  sur 
vives  in  a  corner  occupied  by  the  Cafe  Carabine  d'Or. 
Once  men  gathered  there  to  plot  against  kings,  and  to 
warn  presidents.  They  do  so  yet,  but  they  are  not  the 
same  kind  of  men.  A  brass  button  will  scatter  these; 
those  would  have  set  their  faces  against  an  army.  Above 
the  door  hangs  the  sign  board,  upon  which  has  been 
depicted  a  vast  animal  of  unfamiliar  species.  In  the  act 
of  firing  upon  this  monster  is  represented  an  unobtrusive 
human  levelling  an  obtrusive  gun,  once  the  colour  of 
bright  gold.  Now  the  legend  above  the  picture  is  faded 


Blind  Man's  Holiday  261 

beyond  conjecture:  the  gun's  relation  to  the  title  is  a 
matter  of  faith;  the  menaced  animal,  wearied  of  the  long 
aim  of  the  hunter,  has  resolved  itself  into  a  shapeless  blot. 

The  place  is  known  as  "Antonio's,"  as  the  name,  white 
upon  the  red-lit  transparency,  and  gilt  upon  the  windows, 
attests.  There  is  a  promise  in  "Antonio";  a  justifiable 
expectancy  of  savoury  things  in  oil  and  pepper  and  wine, 
and  perhaps  an  angel's  whisper  of  garlic.  But  the  rest 
of  the  name  is  "O'Riley."  Antonio  O'Riley! 

The  Carabine  d'Or  is  an  ignominious  ghost  of  the  Rue 
Chartres.  The  cafe  where  Bienville  and  Conti  dined, 
where  a  prince  has  broken  bread,  is  become  a  "family 
ristaurant." 

Its  customers  are  working  men  and  women,  almost  to 
a  unit.  Occasionally  you  will  see  chorus  girls  from  the 
cheaper  theatres,  and  men  who  follow  avocations  sub 
ject  to  quick  vicissitudes;  but  at  Antonio's  — name  rich 
in  Bohemian  promise,  but  tame  in  fulfillment  —  manners 
debonair  and  gay  are  toned  down  to  the  "family"  stand 
ard.  Should  you  light  a  cigarette,  mine  host  will  touch 
you  on  the  "arrum"  and  remind  you  that  the  proprieties 
are  menaced.  "Antonio"  entices  and  beguiles  from  fiery 
legend  without,  but  "O'Riley"  teaches  decorum  within. 

It  was  at  this  restaurant  that  Lorison  first  saw  the  girl. 
A  flashy  fellow  with  a  predatory  eye  had  followed  her  in, 
and  had  advanced  to  take  the  other  chair  at  the  little  table 
where  she  stopped,  but  Lorison  slipped  into  the  seat  before 
him.  Their  acquaintance  began,  and  grew,  and  now  for 
two  months  they  had  sat  at  the  same  table  each  evenings 


262  Whirligigs 

not  meeting  by  appointment,  but  as  if  by  a  series  of 
fortuitous  and  happy  accidents.  After  dining,  they 
would  take  a  walk  together  in  one  of  the  little  city  parks, 
or  among  the  panoramic  markets  where  exhibits  a  con 
tinuous  vaudeville  of  sights  and  sounds.  Always  at  eight 
o'clock  their  steps  led  them  to  a  certain  street  corner, 
where  she  prettily  but  firmly  bade  him  good  night  and 
left  him.  "I  do  not  live  far  from  here,"  she  frequently 
said,  "and  you  must  let  me  go  the  rest  of  the  way  alone." 

But  now  Lorison  had  discovered  that  he  wanted  to  go 
the  rest  of  the  way  with  her,  or  happiness  would  depart, 
leaving  him  on  a  very  lonely  corner  of  life.  And  at  the 
same  time  that  he  made  the  discovery,  the  secret  of  his 
banishment  from  the  society  of  the  good  laid  its  finger 
in  his  face  and  told  him  it  must  not  be. 

Man  is  too  thoroughly  an  egoist  not  to  be  also  an  egotist; 
if  he  love,  the  object  shall  know  it.  During  a  lifetime  he 
may  conceal  it  through  stress  of  expediency  and  honour, 
but  it  shall  bubble  from  his  dying  lips,  though  it  disrupt 
a  neighbourhood.  It  is  known,  however,  that  most  men 
do  not  wait  so  long  to  disclose  their  passion.  In  the  case 
of  Lorison,  his  particular  ethics  positively  forbade  him 
to  declare  his  sentiments,  but  he  must  needs  dally  with 
the  subject,  and  woo  by  innuendo  at  least. 

On  this  night,  after  the  usual  meal  at  the  Carabine 
d'Or,  he  strolled  with  his  companion  down  the  dim  old 
street  toward  the  river. 

The  Rue  Chartres  perishes  in  the  old  Place  d'Armes. 
The  ancient  Cabildo,  where  Spanish  justice  fell  like  hail, 


Blind  Man's  Holiday  263 

faces  it,  and  the  Cathedral,  another  provincial  ghost, 
overlooks  it.  Its  centre  is  a  little,  iron-railed  park  of 
flowers  and  immaculate  gravelled  walks,  where  citizens 
take  the  air  of  evenings.  Pedestalled  high  above  it,  the 
general  sits  his  cavorting  steed,  with  his  face  turned 
stonily  down  the  river  toward  English  Turn,  whence 
come  no  more  Britons  to  bombard  his  cotton  bales. 

Often  the  two  sat  in  this  square,  but  to-night  Lorison 
guided  her  past  the  stone-stepped  gate,  and  still  riverward. 
As  they  walked,  he  smiled  to  himself  to  think  that  all 
he  knew  of  her  —  except  that  he  loved  her  —  was  her 
name,  Norah  Greenway,  and  that  she  lived  with  her 
brother.  They  had  talked  about  everything  except 
themselves.  Perhaps  her  reticence  had  been  caused  by  his. 

They  came,  at  length,  upon  the  levee,  and  sat  upon  a 
great,  prostrate  beam.  The  air  was  pungent  with  the 
dust  of  commerce.  The  great  river  slipped  yellowly 
past.  Across  it  Algiers  lay,  a  longitudinous  black  bulk 
against  a  vibrant  electric  haze  sprinkled  with  exact  stars. 

The  girl  was  young  and  of  the  piquant  order.  A  certain 
bright  melancholy  pervaded  her;  she  possessed  an 
untarnished,  pale  prettiness  doomed  to  please.  Her 
voice,  when  she  spoke,  dwarfed  her  theme.  It  was  the 
voice  capable  of  investing  little  subjects  with  a  large 
interest.  She  sat  at  ease,  bestowing  her  skirts  with  the 
little  womanly  touch,  serene  as  if  the  begrimed  pier  were 
a  summer  garden.  Lorison  poked  the  rotting  boards 
with  his  cane. 

He  began  by  telling  her  that  he  was  in  love  with  some 


264  Whirligigs 

one  to  whom  he  durst  not  speak  of  it.  "And  why  not?" 
she  asked,  accepting  swiftly  his  fatuous  presentation  of 
a  third  person  of  straw.  "My  place  in  the  world,"  he 
answered,  "is  none  to  ask  a  woman  to  share.  I  am  an 
outcast  from  honest  people;  I  am  wrongly  accused  of 
one  crime,  and  am,  I  believe,  guilty  of  another." 

Thence  he  plunged  into  the  story  of  his  abdication  from 
society.  The  story,  pruned  of  his  moral  philosophy, 
deserves  no  more  than  the  slightest  touch.  It  is  no  new 
tale,  that  of  the  gambler's  declension.  During  one 
night's  sitting  he  lost,  and  then  had  imperilled  a  certain 
amount  of  his  employer's  money,  which,  by  accident,  he 
carried  with  him.  He  continued  to  lose,  to  the  last  wager, 
and  then  began  to  gain,  leaving  the  game  winner  to  a 
somewhat  formidable  sum.  The  same  night  his 
employer's  safe  was  robbed.  A  search  was  had;  the 
winnings  of  Lorison  were  found  in  his  room,  their  total 
forming  an  accusative  nearness  to  the  sum  purloined. 
He  was  taken,  tried  and,  through  incomplete  evidence, 
released,  smutched  with  the  sinister  devoirs  of  a  dis 
agreeing  jury. 

"It  is  not  in  the  unjust  accusation,"  he  said  to  the  girl, 
"that  my  burden  lies,  but  in  the  knowledge  that  from  the 
moment  I  staked  the  first  dollar  of  the  firm's  money  I 
was  a  criminal  —  no  matter  whether  I  lost  or  won.  You 
see  why  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  speak  of  love  to  her." 

"It  is  a  sad  thing,"  said  Norah,  after  a  little  pause, 
"to  think  what  very  good  people  there  are  in  the  world." 

"Good?"  said  Lorison. 


Blind  Man's  Holiday  265 

'I  was  thinking  of  this  superior  person  whom  you 
say  you  love.  She  must  be  a  very  poor  sort  of  creature." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"Nearly,"  she  continued,  "as  poor  a  sort  of  creature 
as  yourself." 

"You  do  not  understand,"  said  Lorison,  removing  his 
hat  and  sweeping  back  his  fine,  light  hair.  "Suppose 
she  loved  me  in  return,  and  were  willing  to  marry  me. 
Think,  if  you  can,  what  would  follow.  Never  a  day 
would  pass  but  she  would  be  reminded  of  her  sacrifice. 
I  would  read  a  condescension  in  her  smile,  a  pity  even  in 
her  affection,  that  would  madden  me.  No.  The  thing 
would  stand  between  us  forever.  Only  equals  should 
mate.  I  could  never  ask  her  to  come  down  upon  my 
lower  plane." 

An  arc  light  faintly  shone  upon  Lorison's  face.  An 
illumination  from  within  also  pervaded  it.  The  girl 
saw  the  rapt,  ascetic  look;  it  was  the  face  either  of  Sir 
Galahad  or  Sir  Fool. 

"Quite  starlike,"  she  said,  "is  this  unapproachable 
angel.  Really  too  high  to  be  grasped." 

"By  me,  yes." 

She  faced  him  suddenly.  "My  dear  friend,  would  you 
prefer  your  star  fallen?"  Lorison  made  a  wide  gesture. 

"You  push  me  to  the  bald  fact,"  he  declared;  "you 
are  not  in  sympathy  with  my  argument.  But  I  will 
answer  you  so.  If  I  could  reach  my  particular  star,  to 
drag  it  down,  I  would  not  do  it;  but  if  it  were  fallen,  I 
would  pick  it  up,  and  thank  Heaven  for  the  privilege." 


266  Whirligigs 

They  were  silent  for  some  minutes.  Norah  shivered, 
and  thrust  her  hands  deep  into  the  pockets  of  her  jacket. 
Lorison  uttered  a  remorseful  exclamation. 

"I'm  not  cold,"  she  said.  "I  was  just  thinking.  I 
ought  to  tell  you  something.  You  have  selected  a  strange 
confidante.  But  you  cannot  expect  a  chance  acquain- 
ance,  picked  up  in  a  doubtful  restaurant,  to  be  an  angel." 

"Norah!"  cried  Lorison. 

"Let  me  go  on.  You  have  told  me  about  yourself. 
We  have  been  such  good  friends.  I  must  tell  you  now 
what  I  never  wanted  you  to  know.  I  am  —  worse  than 
you  are.  I  was  on  the  stage  ...  I  sang  in  the 
chorus  ...  I  was  pretty  bad,  I  guess  ...  I 
stole  diamonds  from  the  prima  donna  .  .  .  they 
arrested  me  ...  I  gave  most  of  them  up,  and  they 
let  me  go  ...  I  drank  wine  every  night  ...  a 
great  deal  ...  I  was  very  wicked,  but " 

Lorison  knelt  quickly  by  her  side  and  took  her 
hands. 

"Dear  Norah!"  he  said,  exultantly.  "It  is  you,  it  is 
you  I  love!  You  never  guessed  it,  did  you?  'Tis  you 
I  meant  all  the  time.  Now  I  can  speak.  Let  me  make 
you  forget  the  past.  We  have  both  suffered;  let  us  shut 
out  the  world,  and  live  for  each  other.  Norah,  do  you 
hear  me  say  I  love  you  ?" 

"In  spite  of- 

"  Rather  say  because  of  it.  You  have  come  out  of 
your  past  noble  and  good.  Your  heart  is  an  angel's. 
Give  it  to  me." 


Blind  Man's  Holiday  267 

"A  little  while  ago  you  feared  the  future  too  much  to 
even  speak." 

"But  for  you;    not  for  myself.     Can  you  love  me?" 

She  cast  herself,  wildly  sobbing,  upon  his  breast. 

"Better  than  life — than  truth  itself — than  every 
thing." 

"And  my  own  past,"  said  Lorison,  with  a  note  of 
solicitude  —  "  can  you  forgive  and  — 

"I  answered  you  that,"  she  whispered,  "when  I  told 
you  I  loved  you."  She  leaned  away,  and  looked  thought 
fully  at  him.  "If  I  had  not  told  you  about  myself,  would 
you  have  —  would  you 

"No,"  he  interrupted;  "I  would  never  have  let  you 
know  I  loved  you.  I  would  never  have  asked  you  this 
—  Norah,  will  you  be  my  wife?" 

She  wept  again. 

"Oh,  believe  me;  I  am  good  now — I  am  no  longer 
wicked!  I  will  be  the  best  wife  in  the  world.  Don't 
think  I  am  —  bad  any  more.  If  you  do  I  shall  die,  I 
shall  die!" 

While  he  was  consoling  her,  she  brightened  up,  eager 
and  impetuous.  "Will  you  marry  me  to-night?"  she 
said.  "Will  you  prove  it  that  way?  I  have  a  reason  for 
wishing  it  to  be  to-night.  Will  you?" 

Of  one  of  two  things  was  this  exceeding  frankness  the 
outcome:  either  of  importunate  brazenness  or  of  utter 
innocence.  The  lover's  perspective  contained  only  the 
one. 

"The  sooner,"  said  Lorison,  "the  happier  I  shall  be." 


268  Whirligigs 

"What  is  there  to  do?"  she  asked.  "What  do  you 
have  to  get?  Come!  You  should  know." 

Her  energy  stirred  the  dreamer  to  action. 

"A  city  directory  first,"  he  cried,  gayly,  "to  find  where 
the  man  lives  who  gives  licenses  to  happiness.  We  will 
go  together  and  rout  him  out.  Cabs,  cars,  policemen, 
telephones  and  ministers  shall  aid  us." 

"Father  Rogan  shall  marry  us,"  said  the  girl,  with 
ardour.  "I  will  take  you  to  him." 

An  hour  later  the  two  stood  at  the  open  doorway  of  an 
immense,  gloomy  brick  building  in  a  narrow  and  lonely 
street.  The  license  was  tight  in  Norah's  hand. 

"Wait  here  a  moment,"  she  said,  "till  I  find  Father 
Rogan." 

She  plunged  into  the  black  hallway,  and  the  lover  was 
left  standing,  as  it  were,  on  one  leg,  outside.  His  impa 
tience  was  not  greatly  taxed.  Gazing  curiously  into 
what  seemed  the  hallway  to  Erebus,  he  was  presently 
reassured  by  a  stream  of  light  that  bisected  the  darkness, 
far  down  the  passage.  Then  he  heard  her  call,  and 
fluttered  lamp  ward,  like  the  moth.  She  beckoned  him 
through  a  doorway  into  the  room  whence  emanated  the 
light.  The  room  was  bare  of  nearly  everything  except 
books,  which  had  subjugated  all  its  space.  Here  and 
there  little  spots  of  territory  had  been  reconquered.  An 
elderly,  bald  man,  with  a  superlatively  calm,  remote  eye, 
stood  by  a  table  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  his  finger  still 
marking  a  page.  His  dress  was  sombre  and  appertained 


Blind  Man's  Holiday  269 

to  a  religious  order.  His  eye  denoted  an  acquaintance 
with  the  perspective. 

"Father  Rogan,"  said  Norah,  "this  is  he." 

"The  two  of  ye,"  said  Father  Rogan,  "want  to  get 
married  ?  " 

They  did  not  deny  it.  He  married  them.  The  cere 
mony  was  quickly  done.  One  who  could  have  witnessed 
it,  and  felt  its  scope,  might  have  trembled  at  the  terrible 
inadequacy  of  it  to  rise  to  the  dignity  of  its  endless  chain 
of  results. 

Afterward  the  priest  spake  briefly,  as  if  by  rote,  of 
certain  other  civil  and  legal  addenda  that  either  might  or 
should,  at  a  later  time,  cap  the  ceremony.  Lorison 
tendered  a  fee,  which  was  declined,  and  before  the  door 
closed  after  the  departing  couple  Father  Rogan's  book 
popped  open  again  where  his  finger  marked  it. 

In  the  dark  hall  Norah  whirled  and  clung  to  her  com 
panion,  tearful. 

"Will  you  never,  never  be  sorry?" 

At  last  she  was  reassured. 

At  the  first  light  they  reached  upon  the  street,  she  asked 
the  time,  just  as  she  had  each  night.  Lorison  looked  at 
his  watch.  Half-past  eight. 

Lorison  thought  it  was  from  habit  that  she  guided  their 
steps  toward  the  corner  where  they  always  parted.  But, 
arrived  there,  she  hesitated,  and  then  released  his  arm. 
A  drug  store  stood  on  the  corner;  its  bright,  soft  light 
shone  upon  them. 

"Please  leave  me  here  as  usual  to-night,"  said  Norah, 


270  Whirligigs 

sweetly.  "I  must — I  would  rather  you  would.  You 
will  not  object  ?  At  six  to-morrow  evening  I  will  meet 
you  at  Antonio's.  I  want  to  sit  with  you  there  once  more. 
And  then  —  I  will  go  where  you  say."  She  gave  him  a 
bewildering,  bright  smile,  and  walked  swiftly  away. 

Surely  it  needed  all  the  strength  of  her  charm  to  carry 
off  this  astounding  behaviour.  It  was  no  discredit  to 
Lorison's  strength  of  mind  that  his  head  began  to  whirl. 
Pocketing  his  hands,  he  rambled  vacuously  over  to  the 
druggist's  windows,  and  began  assiduously  to  spell  over 
the  names  of  the  patent  medicines  therein  displayed. 

As  soon  as  he  had  recovered  his  wits,  he  proceeded 
along  the  street  in  an  aimless  fashion.  After  drifting  for 
two  or  three  squares,  he  flowed  into  a  somewhat  more 
pretentious  thoroughfare,  a  way  much  frequented  by  him 
in  his  solitary  ramblings.  For  here  was  a  row  of  shops 
devoted  to  traffic  in  goods  of  the  widest  range  of  choice  — 
handiworks  of  art,  skill  and  fancy,  products  of  nature 
and  labour  from  every  zone. 

Here,  for  a  time,  he  loitered  among  the  conspicuous 
windows,  where  was  set,  emphasized  by  congested  floods 
of  light,  the  cunningest  spoil  of  the  interiors.  There 
were  few  passers,  and  of  this  Lorison  was  glad.  He  was 
not  of  the  world.  For  a  long  time  he  had  touched  his 
fellow  man  only  at  the  gear  of  a  levelled  cog-wheel  —  at 
right  angles,  and  upon  a  different  axis.  He  had  dropped 
into  a  distinctly  new  orbit.  The  stroke  of  ill  fortune  had 
acted  upon  him,  in  effect,  as  a  blow  delivered  upon  the 
apex  of  a  certain  ingenious  toy,  the  musical  top,  which, 


Blind  Man's  Holiday  271 

when  thus  buffeted  while  spinning,  gives  forth,  with 
scarcely  retarded  motion,  a  complete  change  of  key  and 
chord. 

Strolling  along  the  pacific  avenue,  he  experienced  a 
singular,  supernatural  calm,  accompanied  by  an  unusual 
activity  of  brain.  Reflecting  upon  recent  affairs,  he 
assured  himself  of  his  happiness  in  having  won  for  a  bride 
the  one  he  had  so  greatly  desired,  yet  he  wondered  mildly 
at  his  dearth  of  active  emotion.  Her  strange  behaviour 
in  abandoning  him  without  valid  excuse  on  his  bridal  eve 
aroused  in  him  only  a  vague  and  curious  speculation. 
Again,  he  found  himself  contemplating,  with  complaisant 
serenity,  the  incidents  of  her  somewhat  lively  career.  His 
perspective  seemed  to  have  been  queerly  shifted. 

As  he  stood  before  a  window  near  a  corner,  his  ears 
were  assailed  by  a  waxing  clamour  and  commotion.  He 
stood  close  to  the  window  to  allow  passage  to  the  cause 
of  the  hubbub  —  a  procession  of  human  beings,  which 
rounded  the  corner  and  headed  in  his  direction.  He 
perceived  a  salient  hue  of  blue  and  a  glitter  of  brass  about 
a  central  figure  of  dazzling  white  and  silver,  and  a  ragged 
wake  of  black,  bobbing  figures. 

Two  ponderous  policemen  were  conducting  between 
them  a  woman  dressed  as  if  for  the  stage,  in  a  short,  white, 
satiny  skirt  reaching  to  the  knees,  pink  stockings,  and  a 
sort  of  sleeveless  bodice  bright  with  relucent,  armour-like 
scales.  Upon  her  curly,  light  hair  was  perched,  at  a 
rollicking  angle,  a  shining  tin  helmet.  The  costume  was 
to  be  instantly  recognized  as  one  of  those  amazing  con- 


272  Whirligigs 

ceptions  to  which  competition  has  harried  the  inventors 
of  the  spectacular  ballet.  One  of  the  officers  bore  a  long 
cloak  upon  his  arm,  which,  doubtless,  had  been  intended 
to  veil  the  candid  attractions  of  their  effulgent  prisoner, 
but,  for  some  reason,  it  had  not  been  called  into  use,  to 
the  vociferous  delight  of  the  tail  of  the  procession. 

Compelled  by  a  sudden  and  vigorous  movement  of  the 
woman,  the  parade  halted  before  the  window  by  which 
Lorison  stood.  He  saw  that  she  was  young,  and,  at  the 
first  glance,  was  deceived  by  a  sophistical  prettiness  of  her 
face,  which  waned  before  a  more  judicious  scrutiny. 
Her  look  was  bold  and  reckless,  and  upon  her  countenance, 
where  yet  the  contours  of  youth  survived,  were  the  finger 
marks  of  old  age's  credentialed  courier,  Late  Hours. 

The  young  woman  fixed  her  unshrinking  gaze  upon 
Lorison,  and  called  to  him  in  the  voice  of  the  wronged 
heroine  in  straits: 

"Say!  You  look  like  a  good  fellow;  come  and  put  up 
the  bail,  won't  you  ?  I've  done  nothing  to  get  pinched 
for.  It's  all  a  mistake.  See  how  they're  treating  me! 
You  won't  be  sorry,  if  you'll  help  me  out  of  this.  Think 
of  your  sister  or  your  girl  being  dragged  along  the  streets 
this  way!  I  say,  come  along  now,  like  a  good  fellow." 

It  may  be  that  Lorison,  in  spite  of  the  unconvincing 
bathos  of  this  appeal,  showed  a  sympathetic  face,  for  one 
of  the  officers  left  the  woman's  side,  and  went  over  to 
him. 

"It's  all  right,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  husky,  confidential 
tone;  "she's  the  right  party.  We  took  her  after  the  first 


Blind  Mans  Holiday  273 

act  at  the  Green  Light  Theatre,  on  a  wire  from  the  chief 
of  police  of  Chicago.  It's  only  a  square  or  two  to  the 
station.  Her  rig's  pretty  bad,  but  she  refused  to  change 
clothes  —  or,  rather,"  added  the  officer,  with  a  smile, 
"to  put  on  some.  I  thought  I'd  explain  matters  to 
you  so  you  wouldn't  think  she  was  being  imposed 
upon." 

"What  is  the  charge?"  asked  Lorison. 

"Grand  larceny.  Diamonds.  Her  husband  is  a 
jeweller  in  Chicago.  She  cleaned  his  show  case  of  the 
sparklers,  and  skipped  with  a  comic-opera  troupe." 

The  policeman,  perceiving  that  the  interest  of  the  entire 
group  of  spectators  was  centred  upon  himself  and  Lorison 
—  their  conference  being  regarded  as  a  possible  new  com 
plication  —  was  fain  to  prolong  the  situation  —  which 
reflected  his  own  importance  —  by  a  little  afterpiece  of 
philosophical  comment. 

"A  gentleman  like  you,  sir,"  he  went  on  affably, 
"would  never  notice  it,  but  it  comes  in  my  line  to  observe 
what  an  immense  amount  of  trouble  is  made  by  that  com 
bination  —  I  mean  the  stage,  diamonds  and  light-headed 
women  who  aren't  satisfied  with  good  homes.  I  tell 
you,  sir,  a  man  these  days  and  nights  wants  to  know  what 
his  women  folks  are  up  to." 

The  policeman  smiled  a  good  night,  and  returned  to 
the  side  of  his  charge,  who  had  been  intently  watching 
Lorison's  face  during  the  conversation,  no  doubt  for 
some  indication  of  his  intention  to  render  succour.  Now, 
at  the  failure  of  the  sign,  and  at  the  movement  made  to 


274  Whirligigs 

continue  the  ignominious  progress,  she  abandoned  hope, 
and  addressed  him  thus,  pointedly: 

"You  damn  chalk-faced  quitter!  You  was  thinking 
of  giving  me  a  hand,  but  you  let  the  cop  talk  you  out  of 
it  the  first  word.  You're  a  dandy  to  tie  to.  Say,  if  you 
ever  get  a  girl,  she'll  have  a  picnic.  Won't  she  work 
you  to  the  queen's  taste!  Oh,  my!"  She  concluded 
with  a  taunting,  shrill  laugh  that  rasped  Lorison  like  a 
saw.  The  policemen  urged  her  forward;  the  delighted 
train  of  gaping  followers  closed  up  the  rear;  and  the 
captive  Amazon,  accepting  her  fate,  extended  the  scope 
of  her  maledictions  so  that  none  in  hearing  might  seem 
to  be  slighted. 

Then  there  came  upon  Lorison  an  overwhelming 
revulsion  of  his  perspective.  It  may  be  that  he  had 
been  ripe  for  it,  that  the  abnormal  condition  of  mind  in 
which  he  had  for  so  long  existed  was  already  about  to 
revert  to  its  balance;  however,  it  is  certain  that  the  events 
of  the  last  few  minutes  had  furnished  the  channel,  if  not 
the  impetus,  for  the  change. 

The  initial  determining  influence  had  been  so  small 
a  thing  as  the  fact  and  manner  of  his  having  been 
approached  by  the  officer.  That  agent  had,  by  the  style 
of  his  accost,  restored  the  loiterer  to  his  former  place  in 
society.  In  an  instant  he  had  been  transformed  from 
a  somewhat  rancid  prowler  along  the  fishy  side  streets  of 
gentility  into  an  honest  gentleman,  with  whom  even  so 
lordly  a  guardian  of  the  peace  might  agreeably  exchange 
the  compliments. 


Blind  Man's  Holiday  275 

This,  then,  first  broke  the  spell,  and  set  thrilling  in  him 
a  resurrected  longing  for  the  fellowship  of  his  kind,  and 
the  rewards  of  the  virtuous.  To  what  end,  he  vehemently 
asked  himself,  was  this  fanciful  self -accusation,  this 
empty  renunciation,  this  moral  squeamishness  through 
which  he  had  been  led  to  abandon  what  was  his  heritage 
in  life,  and  not  beyond  his  deserts  ?  Technically,  he  was 
uncondemned;  his  sole  guilty  spot  was  in  thought  rather 
than  deed,  and  cognizance  of  it  unshared  by  others.  For 
what  good,  moral  or  sentimental,  did  he  slink,  retreating 
like  the  hedgehog  from  his  own  shadow,  to  and  fro  in  this 
musty  Bohemia  that  lacked  even  the  picturesque  ? 

But  the  thing  that  struck  home  and  set  him  raging  was 
the  part  played  by  the  Amazonian  prisoner.  To  the 
counterpart  of  that  astounding  belligerent  —  identical 
at  least,  in  the  way  of  experience  —  to  one,  by  her  own 
confession,  thus  far  fallen,  had  he,  not  three  hours  since, 
been  united  in  marriage.  How  desirable  and  natural  it 
had  seemed  to  him  then,  and  how  monstrous  it  seemed 
now!  How  the  words  of  diamond  thief  number  two  yet 
burned  in  his  ears:  "If  you  ever  get  a  girl,  she'll  have  a 
picnic."  What  did  that  mean  but  that  women  instinc 
tively  knew  him  for  one  they  could  hoodwink  ?  Still  again, 
there  reverberated  the  policeman's  sapient  contribution 
to  his  agony:  "A  man  these  days  and  nights  wants  to 
know  what  his  women  folks  are  up  to."  Oh,  yes,  he  had 
been  a  fool;  he  had  looked  at  things  from  the  wrong 
standpoint. 

But  the  wildest  note  in  all  the  clamour  was  struck  by 


276  Whirligigs 

pain's  forefinger,  jealousy.  Now,  at  least,  he  felt  that 
keenest  sting  —  a  mounting  love  unworthily  bestowed. 
Whatever  she  might  be,  he  loved  her;  he  bore  in  his  own 
breast  his  doom.  A  grating,  comic  flavour  to  his  pre 
dicament  struck  him  suddenly,  and  he  laughed  creakingly 
as  he  swung  down  the  echoing  pavement.  An  impetuous 
desire  to  act,  to  battle  with  his  fate,  seized  him.  He 
stopped  upon  his  heel,  and  smote  his  palms  together 
triumphantly.  His  wife  was  —  where  ?  But  there  was 
a  tangible  link;  an  outlet  more  or  less  navigable,  through 
which  his  derelict  ship  of  matrimony  might  yet  be  safely 
towed  —  the  priest ! 

Like  all  imaginative  men  with  pliable  natures,  Lorison 
was,  when  thoroughly  stirred,  apt  to  become  tempest 
uous.  With  a  high  and  stubborn  indignation  upon  him, 
he  retraced  his  steps  to  the  intersecting  street  by  which 
he  had  come.  Down  this  he  hurried  to  the  corner  where 
he  had  parted  with  —  an  astringent  grimace  tinctured  the 
thought  — his  wife.  Thence  still  back  he  harked,  follow 
ing  through  an  unfamiliar  district  his  stimulated  recollec 
tions  of  the  way  they  had  come  from  that  preposterous 
wedding.  Many  times  he  went  abroad,  and  nosed  his 
way  back  to  the  trail,  furious. 

At  last,  when  he  reached  the  dark,  calamitous  building 
in  which  his  madness  had  culminated,  and  found  the 
black  hallway,  he  dashed  down  it,  perceiving  no  light 
or  sound.  But  he  raised  his  voice,  hailing  loudly;  reckless 
of  everything  but  that  he  should  find  the  old  mischief- 
maker  with  the  eyes  that  looked  too  far  away  to  see  the 


Blind  Mans  Holiday  277 

disaster  he  had  wrought.  The  door  opened,  and  in  the 
stream  of  light  Father  Rogan  stood,  his  book  in  hand, 
with  his  finger  marking  the  place. 

"Ah!"  cried  Lorison.  "You  are  the  man  I  want.  I 
had  a  wife  of  you  a  few  hours  ago.  I  would  not  trouble 
you,  but  I  neglected  to  note  how  it  was  done.  Will  you 
oblige  me  with  the  information  whether  the  business  is 
beyond  remedy?" 

"Come  inside,"  said  the  priest;  "there  are  other  lodgers 
in  the  house,  who  might  prefer  sleep  to  even  a  gratified 
curiosity." 

Lorison  entered  the  room  and  took  the  chair  offered 
him.  The  priest's  eyes  looked  a  courteous  interrogation. 

"I  must  apologize  again,"  said  the  young  man,  "for  so 
soon  intruding  upon  you  with  my  marital  infelicities, 
but,  as  my  wife  has  neglected  to  furnish  me  with  her 
address,  I  am  deprived  of  the  legitimate  recourse  of  a 
family  row." 

"I  am  quite  a  plain  man,"  said  Father  Rogan,  pleas 
antly;  "but  I  do  not  see  how  I  am  to  ask  you  questions." 

"Pardon  my  indirectness,"  said  Lorison;  "I  will  ask 
one.  In  this  room  to-night  you  pronounced  me  to  be  a 
husband.  You  afterward  spoke  of  additional  rites  or 
performances  that  either  should  or  could  be  effected.  I 
paid  little  attention  to  your  words  then,  but  I  am  hungry 
to  hear  them  repeated  now.  As  matters  stand,  am  I 
married  past  all  help  ? " 

"You  are  as  legally  and  as  firmly  bound,"  said  the 
priest,  "as  though  it  had  been  done  in  a  cathedral,  in  the 


278  Whirligigs 

presence  of  thousands.     The  additional  observances  I 
referred  to  are  not  necessary  to  the  strictest  legality  of  the 
act,  but  were  advised  as  a  precaution  for  the  future  - 
for  convenience  of  proof  in  such  contingencies  as  wills, 
inheritances  and  the  like." 

Lorison  laughed  harshly. 

"Many  thanks,"  he  said.  "Then  there  is  no  mistake, 
and  I  am  the  happy  benedict.  I  suppose  I  should  go 
stand  upon  the  bridal  corner,  and  when  my  wife  gets 
through  walking  the  streets  she  will  look  me  up." 

Father  Rogan  regarded  him  calmly. 

"My  son,"  he  said,  "when  a  man  and  woman  come  to 
me  to  be  married  I  always  marry  them.  I  do  this  for  the 
sake  of  other  people  whom  they  might  go  away  and  marry 
if  they  did  not  marry  each  other.  As  you  see,  I  do  not 
seek  your  confidence;  but  your  case  seems  to  me  to  be 
one  not  altogether  devoid  of  interest.  Very  few  marriages 
that  have  come  to  my  notice  have  brought  such  well- 
expressed  regret  within  so  short  a  time.  I  will  hazard 
one  question:  were  you  not  under  the  impression 
that  you  loved  the  lady  you  married,  at  the  time  you 
did  so?" 

"Loved  her!"  cried  Lorison,  wildly.  "Never  so  well 
as  now,  though  she  told  me  she  deceived  and  sinned  and 
stole.  Never  more  than  now,  when,  perhaps,  she  is 
laughing  at  the  fool  she  cajoled  and  left,  with  scarcely  a 
word,  to  return  to  God  only  knows  what  particular  line 
of  her  former  folly." 

Father  Rogan  answered  nothing.     During  the  silence 


Blind  Mans  Holiday  279 

that  succeeded,  he  sat  with  a  quiet  expectation  beaming 
in  his  full,  lambent  eye. 

"If  you  would  listen "  began  Lorison.  The 

priest  held  up  his  hand. 

"As  I  hoped,"  he  said.  "I  thought  you  would  trust 
me.  Wait  but  a  moment."  He  brought  a  long  clajr 
pipe,  filled  and  lighted  it. 

"Now,  my  son,"  he  said. 

Lorison  poured  a  twelvemonth's  accumulated  con 
fidence  into  Father  Regan's  ear.  He  told  all;  not  sparing 
himself  or  omitting  the  facts  of  his  past,  the  events  of  the 
night,  or  his  disturbing  conjectures  and  fears. 

"The  main  point,"  said  the  priest,  when  he  had  con 
cluded,  "seems  to  me  to  be  this — are  you  reasonably 
sure  that  you  love  this  woman  whom  you  have  married  ?" 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Lorison,  rising  impulsively  to  his 
feet  —  "why  should  I  deny  it ?  But  look  at  me  —  am  I 
fish,  flesh  or  fowl  ?  That  is  the  main  point  to  me,  I 
assure  you." 

"I  understand  you,"  said  the  priest,  also  rising,  and 
laying  down  his  pipe.  "The  situation  is  one  that  has 
taxed  the  endurance  of  much  older  men  than  you  —  in 
fact,  especially  much  older  men  than  you.  I  will  try  to 
relieve  you  from  it,  and  this  night.  You  shall  see  for 
yourself  into  exactly  what  predicament  you  have  fallen, 
and  how  you  shall,  possibly,  be  extricated.  There  is  no 
evidence  so  credible  as  that  of  the  eyesight." 

Father  Rogan  moved  about  the  room,  and  donned  a 
soft  black  hat.  Buttoning  his  coat  to  his  throat,  he 


280  Whirligigs 

laid  his  hand  on  the  doorknob.  "Let  us  walk," 
he  said. 

The  two  went  out  upon  the  street.  The  priest  turned 
his  face  down  it,  and  Lorison  walked  with  him  through  a 
squalid  district,  where  the  houses  loomed,  awry  and 
desolate-looking,  high  above  them.  Presently  they  turned 
into  a  less  dismal  side  street,  where  the  houses  were  smaller, 
and,  though  hinting  of  the  most  meagre  comfort,  lacked 
the  concentrated  wretchedness  of  the  more  populous 
byways. 

At  a  segregated,  two-story  house  Father  Rogan  halted, 
and  mounted  the  steps  with  the  confidence  of  a  familiar 
visitor.  He  ushered  Lorison  into  a  narrow  hallway, 
faintly  lighted  by  a  cobwebbed  hanging  lamp.  Almost 
immediately  a  door  to  the  right  opened  and  a  dingy  Irish 
woman  protruded  her  head. 

"Good  evening  to  ye,  Mistress  Geehan,"  said  the 
priest,  unconsciously,  it  seemed,  falling  into  a  delicately 
flavoured  brogue.  "And  is  it  yourself  can  tell  me  if 
Norah  has  gone  out  again,  the  night,  maybe?" 

"Oh,  it's  yer  blissid  riverence!  Sure  and  I  can  tell 
ye  the  same.  The  purty  darlin'  wint  out,  as  usual,  but  a 
bit  later.  And  she  says:  'Mother  Geehan,' says  she, 'it's 
me  last  noight  out,  praise  the  saints,  this  noight  is! '  And, 
oh,  yer  riverence,  the  swate,  beautiful  drame  of  a  dress  she 
had  this  toime!  White  satin  and  silk  and  ribbons,  and 
lace  about  the  neck  and  arrums  —  'twas  a  sin,  yer 
riverence,  the  gold  was  spint  upon  it." 

The  priest  heard  Lorison  catch  his  breath  painfully, 


Blind  Mans  Holiday  281 

and  a  faint  smile  flickered  across  his  own  dean-cut 
mouth. 

"Well,  then,  Mistress  Geehan,"  said  he,  "I'll  just 
step  upstairs  and  see  the  bit  boy  for  a  minute,  and  I'll 
take  this  gentleman  up  with  me." 

"He's  awake,  thin,"  said  the  woman.  "I've  just 
come  down  from  sitting  wid  him  the  last  hour,  tilling  him 
fine  shtories  of  ould  County  Tyrone.  'Tis  a  greedy  gos 
soon,  it  is,  yer  riverence,  for  me  shtories." 

"Small  the  doubt,"  said  Father  Rogan.  "There's  no 
rocking  would  put  him  to  slape  the  quicker,  I'm  thinking." 

Amid  the  woman's  shrill  protest  against  the  retort,  the 
two  men  ascended  the  steep  stairway.  The  priest  pushed 
open  the  door  of  a  room  near  its  top. 

"Is  that  you  already,  sister?"  drawled  a  sweet,  childish 
voice  from  the  darkness. 

"It's  only  ould  Father  Denny  come  to  see  ye,  darlin'; 
and  a  foine  gintleman  I've  brought  to  make  ye  a  gr-r-and 
call.  And  ye  resaves  us  fast  aslape  in  bed!  Shame  on 
yez  manners!" 

"Oh,  Father  Denny,  is  that  youP  I'm  glad.  And 
will  you  light  the  lamp,  please  ?  It's  on  the  table  by  the 
door.  And  quit  talking  like  Mother  Geehan,  Father 
Denny." 

The  priest  lit  the  lamp,  and  Lorison  saw  a  tiny,  towsled- 
haired  boy,  with  a  thin,  delicate  face,  sitting  up  in  a  small 
bed  in  a  corner.  Quickly,  also,  his  rapid  glance  con 
sidered  the  room  and  its  contents.  It  was  furnished  with 
more  than  comfort,  and  its  adornments  plainly  indicated 


£82  Whirligigs 

a  woman's  discerning  taste.  An  open  door  beyond 
revealed  the  blackness  of  an  adjoining  room's  interior. 

The  boy  clutched  both  of  Father  Rogan's  hands.  "I'm 
so  glad  you  came,"  he  said;  "but  why  did  you  come  in 
the  night  ?  Did  sister  send  you  ?  " 

"Off  wid  ye!  Am  I  to  be  sint  about,  at  me  age,  as 
was  Terence  McShane,  of  Ballymahone  ?  I  come  on  me 
own  r-r-responsibility." 

Lorison  had  also  advanced  to  the  boy's  bedside.  He 
was  fond  of  children;  and  the  wee  fellow,  laying  himself 
down  to  sleep  alone  in  that  dark  room,  stirred  his  heart. 

"Aren't  you  afraid,  little  man?"  he  asked,  stooping 
down  beside  him. 

"Sometimes,"  answered  the  boy,  with  a  shy  smile, 
"when  the  rats  make  too  much  noise.  But  nearly  every 
night,  when  sister  goes  out,  Mother  Geehan  stays  a  while 
with  me,  and  tells  me  funny  stories.  I'm  not  often 
afraid,  sir." 

"This  brave  little  gentleman,"  said  Father  Rogan,  "is 
a  scholar  of  mine.  Every  day  from  half -past  six  to  half- 
past  eight  —  when  sister  comes  for  him  —  he  stops  in 
my  study,  and  we  find  out  what's  in  the  inside  of  books. 
He  knows  multiplication,  division  and  fractions;  and 
he's  throubling  me  to  begin  wid  the  chronicles  of  Ciaran 
of  Clonmacnoise,  Corurac  McCullenan  and  Cuan  O'Loc- 
hain,  the  gr-r-reat  Irish  histhorians."  The  boy  was 
evidently  accustomed  to  the  priest's  Celtic  pleasantries. 
A  little,  appreciative  grin  was  all  the  attention  the  insin 
uation  of  pedantry  received. 


Blind  Man's  Holiday  283 

Lorison,  to  have  saved  his  life,  could  not  have  put  to 
the  child  one  of  those  vital  questions  that  were  wildly 
beating  about,  unanswered,  in  his  own  brain.  The  little 
fellow  was  very  like  Norah;  he  had  the  same  shining 
hair  and  candid  eyes. 

"Oh,  Father  Denny,"  cried  the  boy,  suddenly,  "I 
forgot  to  tell  you!  Sister  is  not  going  away  at  night  any 
more!  She  told  me  so  when  she  kissed  me  good  night  as 
she  was  leaving.  And  she  said  she  was  so  happy,  and 
then  she  cried.  Wasn't  that  queer?  But  I'm  glad; 
aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  lad.  And  now,  ye  omadhaun,  go  to  sleep,  and 
say  good  night;  we  must  be  going." 

"Which  shall  I  do  first,  Father  Denny?" 

"Faith,  he's  caught  me  again!  Wait  till  I  get  the 
sassenach  into  the  annals  of  Tageruach,  the  hagiographer; 
I'll  give  him  enough  of  the  Irish  idiom  to  make  him  more 
respectful." 

The  light  was  out,  and  the  small,  brave  voice  bidding 
them  good  night  from  the  dark  room.  They  groped 
downstairs,  and  tore  away  from  the  garrulity  of  Mother 
Geehan. 

Again  the  priest  steered  them  through  the  dim  ways, 
but  this  time  in  another  direction.  His  conductor  was 
serenely  silent,  and  Lorison  followed  his  example  to  the 
extent  of  seldom  speaking.  Serene  he  could  not  be.  His 
heart  beat  suffocatingly  in  his  breast.  The  following  of 
this  blind,  menacing  trail  was  pregnant  with  he  knew  not 
what  humiliating  revelation  to  be  delivered  at  its  end. 


284  Whirligigs 

They  came  into  a  more  pretentious  street,  where  trade, 
it  could  be  surmised,  flourished  by  day.  And  again  the 
priest  paused;  this  time  before  a  lofty  building,  whose 
great  doors  and  windows  in  the  lowest  floor  were  carefully 
shuttered  and  barred.  Its  higher  apertures  were  dark, 
save  in  the  third  story,  the  windows  of  which  were  bril 
liantly  lighted.  Lorison's  ear  caught  a  distant,  regular, 
pleasing  thrumming,  as  of  music  above.  They  stood  at 
an  angle  of  the  building.  Up,  along  the  side  nearest  them, 
mounted  an  iron  stairway.  At  its  top  was  an  upright, 
illuminated  parallelogram.  Father  Rogan  had  stopped, 
and  stood,  musing. 

"I  will  say  this  much,"  he  remarked,  thoughtfully: 
"I  believe  you  to  be  a  better  man  than  you  think  yourself 
to  be,  and  a  better  man  than  I  thought  some  hours  ago. 
But  do  not  take  this,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "as  much 
praise.  I  promised  you  a  possible  deliverance  from  an 
unhappy  perplexity.  I  will  have  to  modify  that  promise. 
I  can  only  remove  the  mystery  that  enhanced  that  per 
plexity.  Your  deliverance  depends  upon  yourself. 
Come." 

He  led  his  companion  up  the  stairway.  Halfway  up, 
Lorison  caught  him  by  the  sleeve.  "Remember,"  he 
gasped,  "I  love  that  woman." 

"You  desired  to  know." 

"I Go  on." 

The  priest  reached  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stairway. 
Lorison,  behind  him,  saw  that  the  illuminated  space  was 
the  glass  upper  half  of  a  door  opening  into  the  lighted 


Blind  Man's  Holiday  285 

room.  The  rhythmic  music  increased  as  they  neared 
it;  the  stairs  shook  with  the  mellow  vibrations. 

Lorison  stopped  breathing  when  he  set  foot  upon  the 
highest  step,  for  the  priest  stood  aside,  and  motioned  him 
to  look  through  the  glass  of  the  door. 

His  eye,  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  met  first  a  blind 
ing  glare,  and  then  he  made  out  the  faces  and  forms  of 
many  people,  amid  an  extravagant  display  of  splendid 
robings  —  billowy  laces,  brilliant-hued  finery,  ribbons, 
silks  and  misty  drapery.  And  then  he  caught  the  mean 
ing  of  that  jarring  hum,  and  he  saw  the  tired,  pale,  happy 
face  of  his  wife,  bending,  as  were  a  score  of  others,  over 
her  sewing  machine  —  toiling,  toiling.  Here  was  the 
folly  she  pursued,  and  the  end  of  his  quest. 

But  not  his  deliverance,  though  even  then  remorse 
struck  him.  His  shamed  soul  fluttered  once  more  before 
it  retired  to  make  room  for  the  other  and  better  one. 
For,  to  temper  his  thrill  of  joy,  the  shine  of  the  satin  and 
the  glimmer  of  ornaments  recalled  the  disturbing  figure 
of  the  bespangled  Amazon,  and  the  base  duplicate  histories 
lit  by  the  glare  of  footlights  and  stolen  diamonds.  It  is 
past  the  wisdom  of  him  who  only  sets  the  scenes,  either  to 
praise  or  blame  the  man.  But  this  time  his  love  over 
came  his  scruples.  He  took  a  quick  step,  and  reached 
out  his  hand  for  the  doorknob.  Father  Rogan  was 
quicker  to  arrest  it  and  draw  him  back. 

"You  use  my  trust  in  you  queerly,"  said  the  priest 
sternly.  "What  are  you  about  to  do?" 

"I  am  going  to  my  wife,"  said  Lorison.  "Let  me  pass." 


286  Whirligigs 

"Listen,"  said  the  priest,  holding  him  firmly  by  the 
arm.  "I  am  about  to  put  you  in  possession  of  a  piece  of 
knowledge  of  which,  thus  far,  you  have  scarcely  proved 
deserving.  I  do  not  think  you  ever  will;  but  I  will  not 
dwell  upon  that.  You  see  in  that  room  the  woman  you 
married,  working  for  a  frugal  living  for  herself,  and  a 
generous  comfort  for  an  idolized  brother.  This  building 
belongs  to  the  chief  costumer  of  the  city.  For  months  the 
advance  orders  for  the  coming  Mardi  Gras  festivals  have 
kept  the  work  going  day  and  night.  I  myself  secured 
employment  here  for  Norah.  She  toils  here  each  night 
from  nine  o'clock  until  daylight,  and,  besides,  carries 
home  with  her  some  of  the  finer  costumes,  requiring  more 
delicate  needlework,  and  works  there  part  of  the  day. 
Somehow,  you  two  have  remained  strangely  ignorant  of 
each  other's  lives.  Are  you  convinced  now  that  your 
wVife  is  not  walking  the  streets  ?" 

"Let  me  go  to  her,"  cried  Lorison,  again  struggling, 
"and  beg  her  forgiveness!" 

"Sir,"  said  the  priest,  "do  you  owe  me  nothing?  Be 
quiet.  It  seems  so  often  that  Heaven  lets  fall  its  choicest 
gifts  into  hands  that  must  be  taught  to  hold  them.  Listen 
again.  You  forgot  that  repentant  sin  must  not  comprom 
ise,  but  look  up,  for  redemption,  to  the  purest  and  best. 
You  went  to  her  with  the  fine-spun  sophistry  that  peace 
could  be  found  in  a  mutual  guilt;  and  she,  fearful  of  losing 
what  her  heart  so  craved,  thought  it  worth  the  price  to 
buy  it  with  a  desperate,  pure,  beautiful  lie.  I  have  known 
her  since  the  day  she  was  born;  she  is  as  innocent  and 


Blind  Mans  Holiday  287 

unsullied  in  life  and  deed  as  a  holy  saint.  In  that  lowly 
street  where  she  dwells  she  first  saw  the  light,  and  she 
has  lived  there  ever  since,  spending  her  days  in  generous 
self-sacrifice  for  others.  Och,  ye  spalpeen!"  continued 
Father  Rogan,  raising  his  finger  in  kindly  anger  at  Lorison. 
"What  for,  I  wonder,  could  she  be  afther  making  a  fool 
of  hersilf,  and  shamin'  her  swate  soul  with  lies,  for  the 
like  of  you ! " 

"Sir,"  said  Lorison,  trembling,  "say  what  you  please 
•f  me.  Doubt  it  as  you  must,  I  will  yet  prove  my  gratitude 
to  you,  and  my  devotion  to  her.  But  let  me  speak  to  her 
once  now,  let  me  kneel  for  just  one  moment  at  her  feet, 
and " 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  the  priest.  "How  many  acts  of  a 
love  drama  do  you  think  an  old  bookworm  like  me  capable 
of  witnessing?  Besides,  what  kind  of  figures  do  we  cut, 
spying  upon  the  mysteries  of  midnight  millinery!  Go 
to  meet  your  wife  to-morrow,  as  she  ordered  you,  and  obey 
her  thereafter,  and  maybe  some  time  I  shall  get  forgive 
ness  for  the  part  I  have  played  in  this  night's  work.  Off 
wid  yez  down  the  shtairs,  now!  'Tis  late,  and  an  ould 
man  like  me  should  be  takin'  his  rest." 


XXIV 
MADAME  BO-PEEP,  OF  THE  RANCHES 

AUNT  ELLEN,"  said  Octavia,  cheerfully,  as  she  threw 
her  black  kid  gloves  carefully  at  the  dignified  Persian  cat 
on  the  window-seat,  "I'm  a  pauper." 

"You  are  so  extreme  in  your  statements,  Octavia, 
dear,"  said  Aunt  Ellen,  mildly,  looking  up  from  her  paper. 
"If  you  find  yourself  temporarily  in  need  of  some  small 
change  for  bonbons,  you  will  find  my  purse  in  the  drawer 
of  the  writing  desk." 

Octavia  Beaupree  removed  her  hat  and  seated  herself 
on  a  footstool  near  her  aunt's  chair,  clasping  her  hands 
about  her  knees.  Her  slim  and  flexible  figure,  clad  in  a 
modish  mourning  costume,  accommodated  itself  easily 
and  gracefully  to  the  trying  position.  Her  bright  and 
youthful  face,  with  its  pair  of  sparkling,  life-enamoured 
eyes,  tried  to  compose  itself  to  the  seriousness  that  the 
occasion  seemed  to  demand. 

"  You  good  auntie,  it  isn't  a  case  of  bonbons ;  it  is  abject, 
staring,  unpicturesque  poverty,  with  ready-made  clothes, 
gasolined  gloves,  and  probably  one  o'clock  dinners  all 
waiting  with  the  traditional  wolf  at  the  door.  I've  just 
come  from  my  lawyer,  auntie,  and,  'Please,  ma'am,  I 
ain't  got  nothink  't  all.  Flowers,  lady?  Buttonhole, 

288 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches      289 

gentleman?  Pencils,  sir,  three  for  five,  to  help  a  poor 
widow  ? '  Do  I  do  it  nicely,  auntie,  or,  as  a  bread-winner 
accomplishment,  were  my  lessons  in  elocution  entirely 
wasted  ?  " 

"  Do  be  serious,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Ellen,  letting  her 
paper  fall  to  the  floor,  "  long  enough  to  tell  me  what  you 
mean.  Colonel  Beaupree's  estate " 

"Colonel  Beaupree's  estate,"  interrupted  Octavia, 
emphasizing  her  words  with  appropriate  dramatic  ges 
tures,  "is  of  Spanish  castellar  architecture.  Colonel 
Beaupree's  resources  are  —  wind.  Colonel  Beaupree's 
stocks  are  —  water.  Colonel  Beaupree's  income  is  — 
all  in.  The  statement  lacks  the  legal  technicalities  to 
which  I  have  been  listening  for  an  hour,  but  that  is  what 
it  means  when  translated." 

"  Octavia ! "  Aunt  Ellen  was  now  visibly  possessed  by 
consternation.  "  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  And  it  was  the 
impression  that  he  was  worth  a  million.  And  the  De 
Peysters  themselves  introduced  him!" 

Octavia  rippled  out  a  laugh,  and  then  became  properly 
grave. 

"  De  mortuis  nil,  auntie  —  not  even  the  rest  of  it.  The 
dear  old  colonel  —  what  a  gold  brick  he  was,  after  all ! 
I  paid  for  my  bargain  fairly  —  I'm  all  here,  am  I  not  ? 
—  items :  eyes,  fingers,  toes,  youth,  old  family,  unques 
tionable  position  in  society  as  called  for  in  the  contract 
—  no  wild -cat  stock  here."  Octavia  picked  up  the 
morning  paper  from  the  floor.  "But  I'm  not  going  to 
'  squeal '  -  —  isn't  that  what  they  call  it  when  you  rail  at 


290  Whirligigs 

Fortune  because  you've  lost  the  game?"  She  turned 
the  pages  of  the  paper  calmly.  " '  Stock  market '  —  no 
use  for  that.  '  Society's  doings '  —  that's  done.  Here  is 
my  page  —  the  wish  column.  A  Van  Dresser  could  not 
be  said  to  'want'  for  anything,  of  course.  'Chamber 
maids,  cooks,  canvassers,  stenographers " 

"Dear,"  said  Aunt  Ellen,  with  a  little  tremor  in  her 
voice,  "please  do  not  talk  in  that  way.  Even  if  your 
affairs  are  in  so  unfortunate  a  condition,  there  is  my  three 
thousand  - 

Octavia  sprang  up  lithely,  and  deposited  a  smart  kiss 
on  the  delicate  cheek  of  the  prim  little  elderly  maid. 

"Blessed  auntie,  your  three  thousand  is  just  sufficient 
to  insure  your  Hyson  to  be  free  from  willow  leaves  and 
keep  the  Persian  in  sterilized  cream.  I  know  I'd  be 
welcome,  but  I  prefer  to  strike  bottom  like  Beelzebub 
rather  than  hang  around  like  the  Peri  listening  to  the 
music  from  the  side  entrance.  I'm  going  to  earn  my  own 
living.  There's  nothing  else  to  do.  I'm  a  —  Oh,  oh,  oh ! 
—  I  had  forgotten.  There's  one  thing  saved  from  the 
wreck.  It's  a  corral  —  no,  a  ranch  in  —  let  me  see  — 
Texas:  an  asset,  dear  old  Mr.  Bannister  called  it.  How 
pleased  he  was  to  show  me  something  he  could  describe 
as  unencumbered!  I've  a  description  of  it  among  those 
stupid  papers  he  made  me  bring  away  with  me  from  his 
office.  I'll  try  to  find  it." 

Octavia  found  her  shopping-bag,  and  drew  from  it  a 
long  envelope  filled  with  typewritten  documents. 

"A  ranch  in  Texas,"  sighed  Aunt  Ellen.     "It  sounds 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches 

to  me  more  like  a  liability  than  an  asset.  Those  are  the 
places  where  the  centipedes  are  found,  and  cowboys, 
and  fandangos." 

'"The  Rancho  de  las  Sombras,'"  read  Octavia  from 
a  sheet  of  violently  purple  typewriting,  "'is  situated  one 
hundred  and  ten  miles  southeast  of  San  Antonio,  and 
thirty-eight  miles  from  its  nearest  railroad  station,  Nopal, 
on  the  I.  and  G.  N.  Ranch,  consists  of  7,680  acres  of  well- 
watered  land,  with  title  conferred  by  State  patents,  and 
twenty-two  sections,  or  14,080  acres,  partly  under  yearly 
running  lease  and  partly  bought  under  State's  twenty- 
year-purchase  act.  Eight  thousand  graded  merino  sheep, 
with  the  necessary  equipment  of  horses,  vehicles  and 
general  ranch  paraphernalia.  Ranch-house  built  of 
brick,  with  six  rooms  comfortably  furnished  according  to 
the  requirements  of  the  climate.  All  within  a  strong 
barbed-wire  fence. 

'"The  present  ranch  manager  seems  to  be  competent 
and  reliable,  and  is  rapidly  placing  upon  a  paying  basis 
a  business  that,  in  other  hands,  had  been  allowed  to  suffer 
from  neglect  and  misconduct. 

" '  This  property  was  secured  by  Colonel  Beaupree  in  a 
deal  with  a  Western  irrigation  syndicate,  and  the  title 
to  it  seems  to  be  perfect.  With  careful  management  and 
the  natural  increase  of  land  values,  it  ought  to  be  made 
the  foundation  for  a  comfortable  fortune  for  its  owner.' " 

When  Octavia  ceased  reading,  Aunt  Ellen  uttered 
something  as  near  a  sniff  as  her  breeding  permitted. 

"The    prospectus,"    she    said,    with    uncompromising 


292  Whirligigs 

metropolitan  suspicion,  "doesn't  mention  the  centipedes, 
or  the  Indians.     And  you  never  did  like  mutton,  Octavia. 
I  don't  see  what  advantage  you  can  derive  from  this  — 
desert." 

But  Octavia  was  in  a  trance.  Her  eyes  were  steadily 
regarding  something  quite  beyond  their  focus.  Her  lips 
were  parted,  and  her  face  was  lighted  by  the  kindling 
furor  of  the  explorer,  the  ardent,  stirring  disquiet  of  the 
adventurer.  Suddenly  she  clasped  her  hands  together 
exultantly. 

"The  problem  solves  itself,  auntie,"  she  cried.  "I'm 
going  to  that  ranch.  I'm  going  to  live  on  it.  I'm 
going  to  learn  to  like  mutton,  and  even  concede  the  good 
qualities  of  centipedes  —  at  a  respectful  distance.  It's 
just  what  I  need.  It's  a  new  life  that  comes  when  my  old 
one  is  just  ending.  It's  a  release,  auntie;  it  isn't  a  narrow 
ing.  Think  of  the  gallops  over  those  leagues  of  prairies, 
with  the  wind  tugging  at  the  roots  of  your  hair,  the  com 
ing  close  to  the  earth  and  learning  over  again  the  stories 
of  the  growing  grass  and  the  little  wild  flowers  without 
names!  Glorious  is  what  it  will  be.  Shall  I  be  a 
shepherdess  with  a  Watteau  hat,  and  a  crook  to  keep  the 
bad  wolves  from  the  lambs,  or  a  typical  Western  ranch 
girl,  with  short  hair,  like  the  pictures  of  her  in  the  Sunday 
papers  ?  I  think  the  latter.  And  they'll  have  my  picture, 
too,  with  the  wild-cats  I've  slain,  single-handed,  hanging 
from  my  saddle  horn.  '  From  the  Four  Hundred  to  the 
Flocks'  is  the  way  they'll  headline  it,  and  they'll  print 
photographs  of  the  old  Van  Dresser  mansion  and  the 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches       293 

church  where  I  was  married.  They  won't  have  my 
picture,  but  they'll  get  an  artist  to  draw  it.  I'll  be  wild 
and  woolly,  and  I'll  grow  my  own  wool." 

"Octavia!"  Aunt  Ellen  condensed  into  the  one  word 
all  the  protests  she  was  unable  to  utter. 

"Don't  say  a  word,  auntie.  I'm  going.  I'll  see  the 
sky  at  night  fit  down  on  the  world  like  a  big  butter-dish 
cover,  and  I'll  make  friends  again  with  the  stars  that  I 
haven't  had  a  chat  with  since  I  was  a  wee  child.  I  wish 
to  go.  I'm  tired  of  all  this.  I'm  glad  I  haven't  any 
money.  I  could  bless  Colonel  Beaupree  for  that  ranch, 
and  forgive  him  for  all  his  bubbles.  What  if  the  life  will 
be  rough  and  lonely !  I  —  I  deserve  it.  I  shut  my  heart 
to  everything  except  that  miserable  ambition.  I  —  oh, 
I  wish  to  go  away,  and  forget  — forget!" 

Octavia  swerved  suddenly  to  her  knees,  laid  her  flushed 
face  in  her  aunt's  lap,  and  shook  with  turbulent  sobs. 

Aunt  Ellen  bent  over  her,  and  smoothed  the  coppery- 
brown  hair. 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  said,  gently;    "I  didn't  know  - 
that.     Who  was  it,  dear  ?  " 

When  Mrs.  Octavia  Beaupree,  nee  Van  Dresser, 
stepped  from  the  train  at  Nopal,  her  manner  lost,  for  the 
moment,  some  of  that  easy  certitude  which  had  always 
marked  her  movements.  The  town  was  of  recent  estab 
lishment,  and  seemed  to  have  been  hastily  constructed  of 
undressed  lumber  and  flapping  canvas.  The  element 
that  had  congregated  about  the  station,  though  not 


294  Whirligigs 

offensively  demonstrative,  was  clearly  composed  of  citizens 
accustomed  to  and  prepared  for  rude  alarms. 

Octavia  stood  on  the  platform,  against  the  telegraph 
office,  and  attempted  to  choose  by  intuition  from  the 
swaggering,  straggling  string  of  loungers,  the  manager 
of  the  Rancho  de  las  Sombras,  who  had  been  instructed 
by  Mr.  Bannister  to  meet  her  there.  That  tall,  serious- 
looking,  elderly  man  in  the  blue  flannel  shirt  and  white 
tie  she  thought  must  be  he.  But,  no;  he  passed  by, 
removing  his  gaze  from  the  lady  as  hers  rested  on  him, 
according  to  the  Southern  custom.  The  manager,  she 
thought,  with  some  impatience  at  being  kept  waiting, 
should  have  no  difficulty  in  selecting  her.  Young  women 
wearing  the  most  recent  thing  in  ash-coloured  travelling 
suits  were  not  so  plentiful  in  Nopal! 

Thus  keeping  a  speculative  watch  on  all  persons  of 
possible  managerial  aspect,  Octavia,  with  a  catching 
breath  and  a  start  of  surprise,  suddenly  became  aware  of 
Teddy  Westlake  hurrying  along  the  platform  in  the 
direction  of  the  train  —  of  Teddy  Westlake  or  his  sun- 
browned  ghost  in  cheviot,  boots  and  leather-girdled  hat 
-Theodore  Westlake,  Jr.,  amateur  polo  (almost) 
champion,  all-round  butterfly  and  cumberer  of  the  soil; 
but  a  broader,  surer,  more  emphasized  and  determined 
Teddy  than  the  one  she  had  known  a  year  ago  when  last 
she  saw  him. 

He  perceived  Octavia  at  almost  the  same  time,  deflected 
his  course,  and  steered  for  her  in  his  old,  straightforward 
way.  Something  like  awe  came  upon  her  as  the  strange- 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches      295 

ness  of  his  metamorphosis  was  brought  into  closer  range; 
the  rich,  red-brown  of  his  complexion  brought  out  so 
vividly  his  straw-coloured  mustache  and  steel-gray  eyes. 
He  seemed  more  grown-up,  and,  somehow,  farther  away. 
But,  when  he  spoke,  the  old,  boyish  Teddy  came  back 
again.  They  had  been  friends  from  childhood. 

"Why,    'Tave!"    he    exclaimed,    unable    to    reduce 
his  perplexity    to    coherence.     "  How  —  what  —  when  — 
where  ?  " 

"Train,"  said  Octavia;    "necessity;    ten  minutes  age; 
home.     Your  complexion's  gone,  Teddy.     Now,  how  — 
what  —  when  —  where  ?  " 

"  I'm  working  down  here,"  said  Teddy.  He  cast  side 
glances  about  the  station  as  one  does  who  tries  to  combine 
politeness  with  duty. 

"  You  didn't  notice  on  the  train,"  he  asked,  "  an  old 
lady  with  gray  curls  and  a  poodle,  who  occupied  two 
seats  with  her  bundles  and  quarrelled  with  the  conductor, 
did  you?" 

"I  think  not,"  answered  Octavia,  reflecting.  "And 
you  haven't,  by  any  chance,  noticed  a  big,  gray-mustached 
man  in  a  blue  shirt  and  six-shooters,  with  little  flakes  of 
merino  wool  sticking  in  his  hair,  have  you  ?  " 

"Lots  of  'em,"  said  Teddy,  with  symptoms  of  mental 
delirium  under  the  strain.  "  Do  you  happen  to  know  any 
such  individual  ?  " 

"No;  the  description  is  imaginary.  Is  your  interest 
in  the  old  lady  whom  you  describe  a  personal  one  ?  " 

"Never  saw  her  in  my  life.     She's  painted  entirely 


296  Whirligigs 

from  fancy.  She  owns  the  little  piece  of  property  where  I 
earn  my  bread  and  butter  —  the  Rancho  de  las  Sombras. 
I  drove  up  to  meet  her  according  to  arrangement  with 
her  lawyer." 

Octavia  leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  telegraph  office. 
Was  this  possible?  And  didn't  he  know? 

"Are  you  the  manager  of  that  ranch?"  she  asked 
weakly. 

"I  am,"  said  Teddy,  with  pride. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Beaupree,"  said  Octavia  faintly;  "but  my 
hair  never  would  curl,  and  I  was  polite  to  the  conductor." 

For  a  moment  that  strange,  grown-up  look  came  back, 
and  removed  Teddy  miles  away  from  her. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,"  he  said,  rather  awkwardly. 
"You  see,  I've  been  down  here  in  the  chaparral  a  year. 
I  hadn't  heard.  Give  me  your  checks,  please,  and  I'll 
have  your  traps  loaded  into  the  wagon.  Jose  will  follow 
with  them.  We  travel  ahead  in  the  buckboard." 

Seated  by  Teddy  in  a  feather-weight  buckboard,  behind 
a  pair  of  wild,  cream-coloured  Spanish  ponies,  Octavia 
abandoned  all  thought  for  the  exhilaration  of  the  present. 
They  swept  out  of  the  little  town  and  down  the  level  road 
toward  the  south.  Soon  the  road  dwindled  and  dis 
appeared,  and  they  struck  across  a  world  carpeted  with 
an  endless  reach  of  curly  mesquite  grass.  The  wheels 
made  no  sound.  The  tireless  ponies  bounded  ahead  at 
an  unbroken  gallop.  The  temperate  wind,  made  fragrant 
by  thousands  of  acres  of  blue  and  yellow  wild  flowers, 
roared  gloriously  in  their  ears.  The  motion  was  aerial, 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches       297 

ecstatic,  with  a  thrilling  sense  of  perpetuity  in  its  effect. 
Octavia  sat  silent,  possessed  by  a  feeling  of  elemental, 
sensual  bliss.  Teddy  seemed  to  be  wrestling  with  some 
internal  problem. 

"I'm  going  to  call  you  madama,"  he  announced  as  the 
result  of  his  labours.  "That  is  what  the  Mexicans  will 
call  you  —  they're  nearly  all  Mexicans  on  the  ranch, 
you  know.  That  seems  to  me  about  the  proper  thing." 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Westlake,"  said  Octavia,  primly. 

"  Oh,  now,"  said  Teddy,  in  some  consternation,  "  that's 
carrying  the  thing  too  far,  isn't  it?" 

"Don't  worry  me  with  your  beastly  etiquette.  I'm 
just  beginning  to  live.  Don't  remind  me  of  anything 
artificial.  If  only  this  air  could  be  bottled!  This  much 
alone  is  worth  coming  for.  Oh,  look!  there  goes  a  deer !" 

"  Jack-rabbit,"  said  Teddy,  without  turning  his  head. 

"  Could  I  —  might  I  drive  ?  "  suggested  Octavia,  pant 
ing,  with  rose-tinted  cheeks  and  the  eye  of  an  eager  child. 

"  On  one  condition.     Could  I  —  might  I  smoke  ?  " 

"  Forever ! "  cried  Octavia,  taking  the  lines  with  solemn 
joy.  "  How  shall  I  know  which  way  to  drive  ?  " 

"Keep  her  sou'  by  sou'east,  and  all  sail  set.  You  see 
that  black  speck  on  the  horizon  under  that  lowermost 
Gulf  cloud  ?  That's  a  group  of  live-oaks  and  a  land 
mark.  Steer  halfway  between  that  and  the  little  hill  to 
the  left.  I'll  recite  you  the  whole  code  of  driving  rules 
for  the  Texas  prairies:  keep  the  reins  from  under  the 
horses'  feet,  and  swear  at  'em  frequent." 

"I'm  too  happy  to  swear,  Ted.     Oh,  why  do  people 


298  Whirligigs 

buy  yachts  or  travel  in  palace-cars,  when  a  buckboard 
and  a  pair  of  plugs  and  a  spring  morning  like  this  can 
satisfy  all  desire  ?  " 

"  Now,  I'll  ask  you,"  protested  Teddy,  who  was  futilely 
striking  match  after  match  on  the  dashboard,  "not  to 
call  those  denizens  of  the  air  plugs.  They  can  kick  out 
a  hundred  miles  between  daylight  and  dark."  At  last 
he  succeeded  in  snatching  a  light  for  his  cigar  from  the 
flame  held  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands. 

"Room!"     said     Octavia,     intensely.     "That's    what 
produces  the  effect.     I  know  now  what  I've  wanted  - 
scope  —  range  —  room ! " 

"  Smoking-room,"  said  Teddy,  unsentimentally.  "  I 
love  to  smoke  in  a  buckboard.  The  wind  blows  the  smoke 
into  you  and  out  again.  It  saves  exertion." 

The  two  fell  so  naturally  into  their  old-time  goodfellow- 
ship  that  it  was  only  by  degrees  that  a  sense  of  the  strange 
ness  of  the  new  relations  between  them  came  to  be  felt. 

"Madama,"  said  Teddy,  wonderingly,  "however  did 
you  get  it  into  your  head  to  cut  the  crowd  and  come  down 
here?  Is  it  a  fad  now  among  the  upper  classes  to  trot 
off  to  sheep  ranches  instead  of  to  Newport  ?  " 

"I  was  broke,  Teddy,"  said  Octavia,  sweetly,  with  her 
interest  centred  upon  steering  safely  between  a  Spanish 
dagger  plant  and  a  clump  of  chaparral;  "I  haven't  a 
thing  in  the  world  but  this  ranch  —  not  even  any  other 
home  to  go  to." 

"Come,  now,"  said  Teddy,  anxiously  but  incredu 
lously,  "you  don't  mean  it?" 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches       299 

"When  my  husband,"  said  Octavia,  with  a  shy  slurring 
of  the  word,  "died  three  months  ago  I  thought  I  had  a 
reasonable  amount  of  the  world's  goods.  His  lawyer 
exploded  that  theory  in  a  sixty-minute  fully  illustrated 
lecture.  I  took  to  the  sheep  as  a  last  resort.  Do  you 
happen  to  know  of  any  fashionable  caprice  among  the 
gilded  youth  of  Manhattan  that  induces  them  to  abandon 
polo  and  club  windows  to  become  managers  of  sheep 
ranches  ? " 

"It's  easily  explained  in  my  case,"  responded  Teddy, 
promptly.  "  I  had  to  go  to  work.  I  couldn't  have  earned 
my  board  in  New  York,  so  I  chummed  a  while  with  old 
Sandford,  one  of  the  syndicate  that  owned  the  ranch  before 
Colonel  Beaupree  bought  it,  and  got  a  place  down  here. 
I  wasn't  manager  at  first.  I  jogged  around  on  ponies  and 
studied  the  business  in  detail,  until  I  got  all  the  points  in 
my  head.  I  saw  where  it  was  losing  and  what  the  reme 
dies  were,  and  then  Sandford  put  me  in  charge.  I  get  a 
hundred  dollars  a  month,  and  I  earn  it." 

"  Poor  Teddy ! "  said  Octavia,  with  a  smile. 

"You  needn't.  I  like  it.  I  save  half  my  wages,  and 
I'm  as  hard  as  a  water  plug.  It  beats  polo." 

"  Will  it  furnish  bread  and  tea  and  jam  for  another  out 
cast  from  civilization  ?  " 

"  The  spring  shearing,"  said  the  manager,  "  just  cleaned 
up  a  deficit  in  last  year's  business.  Wastefulness  and 
inattention  have  been  the  rule  heretofore.  The  autumn 
clip  will  leave  a  small  profit  over  all  expenses.  Next 
year  there  will  be  jam." 


300  Whirligigs 

When,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  the  ponies 
rounded  a  gentle,  brush-covered  hill,  and  then  swooped, 
like  a  double  cream-coloured  cyclone,  upon  the  Rancho 
de  las  Sombras,  Octavia  gave  a  little  cry  of  delight.  A 
lordly  grove  of  magnificent  live-oaks  cast  an  area  of 
grateful,  cool  shade,  whence  the  ranch  had  drawn  its 
name,  "  de  las  Sombras  "  —  of  the  shadows.  The  house, 
of  red  brick,  one  story,  ran  low  and  long  beneath  the  trees. 
Through  its  middle,  dividing  its  six  rooms  in  half,  extended 
a  broad,  arched  passageway,  picturesque  with  flowering 
cactus  and  hanging  red  earthern  jars.  A  "gallery,"  low 
and  broad,  encircled  the  building.  Vines  climbed  about 
it,  and  the  adjacent  ground  was,  for  a  space,  covered  with 
transplanted  grass  and  shrubs.  A  little  lake,  long  and 
narrow,  glimmered  in  the  sun  at  the  rear.  Further  away 
stood  the  shacks  of  the  Mexican  workers,  the  corrals, 
wool  sheds  and  shearing  pens.  To  the  right  lay  the  low 
hills,  splattered  with  dark  patches  of  chaparral;  to  the 
left  the  unbounded  green  prairie  blending  against  the  blue 
heavens. 

"It's  a  home,  Teddy,"  said  Octavia,  breathlessly; 
"that's  what  it  is  —  it's  a  home." 

"  Not  so  bad  for  a  sheep  ranch,"  admitted  Teddy,  with 
excusable  pride.  "  I've  been  tinkering  on  it  at  odd  times." 

A  Mexican  youth  sprang  from  somewhere  in  the  grass, 
and  took  charge  of  the  creams.  The  mistress  and  the 
manager  entered  the  house. 

"Here's  Mrs.  Maclntyre,"  said  Teddy,  as  a  placid, 
neat,  elderly  lady  came  out  upon  the  gallery  to  meet 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  R,anc1ies       301 

them.  "Mrs.  Mac,  here's  the  boss.  Very  likely  she 
will  be  wanting  a  hunk  of  bacon  and  a  dish  of  beans  after 
her  drive." 

Mrs.  Maclntyre,  the  housekeeper,  as  much  a  fixture 
on  the  place  as  the  lake  or  the  live-oaks,  received  the 
imputation  of  the  ranch's  resources  of  refreshment  with 
mild  indignation,  and  was  about  to  give  it  utterance  when 
Octavia  spoke. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Maclntyre,  don't  apologize  for  Teddy. 
Yes,  I  call  him  Teddy.  So  does  every  one  whom  he 
hasn't  duped  into  taking  him  seriously.  You  see,  we 
used  to  cut  paper  dolls  and  play  jackstraws  together  ages 
ago.  No  one  minds  what  he  says." 

"No,"  said  Teddy,  "no  one  minds  what  he  says,  just 
so  he  doesn't  do  it  again." 

Octavia  cast  one  of  those  subtle,  sidelong  glances 
toward  him  from  beneath  her  lowered  eyelids  —  a  glance 
that  Teddy  used  to  describe  as  an  upper-cut.  But  there 
was  nothing  in  his  ingenuous,  weather- tanned  face  to 
warrant  a  suspicion  that  he  was  making  an  allusion  — 
nothing.  Beyond  a  doubt,  thought  Octavia,  he  had 
forgotten. 

"  Mr.  Westlake  likes  his  fun,"  said  Mrs.  Maclntyre,  as 
she  conducted  Octavia  to  her  rooms.  "But,"  she  added, 
loyally,  "people  around  here  usually  pay  attention  to 
what  he  says  when  he  talks  in  earnest.  I  don't  know 
what  would  have  become  of  this  place  without  him." 

Two  rooms  at  the  east  end  of  the  house  had  been 
arranged  for  the  occupancy  of  the  ranch's  mistress.  When 


302  Whirligigs 

she  entered  them  a  slight  dismay  seized  her  at  their  bare 
appearance  and  the  scantiness  of  their  furniture;  but  she 
quickly  reflected  that  the  climate  was  a  semi-tropical  one, 
and  was  moved  to  appreciation  of  the  well-conceived  efforts 
to  conform  to  it.  The  sashes  had  already  been  removed 
from  the  big  windows,  and  white  curtains  waved  in  the 
Gulf  breeze  that  streamed  through  the  wide  jalousies. 
The  bare  floor  was  amply  strewn  with  cool  rugs;  the 
chairs  were  inviting,  deep,  dreamy  willows;  the  walls 
were  papered  with  a  light,  cheerful  olive.  One  whole 
side  of  her  sitting  room  was  covered  with  books  on  smooth, 
Mnpainted  pine  shelves.  She  flew  to  these  at  once.  Before 
her  was  a  well-selected  library.  She  caught  glimpses  of 
titles  of  volumes  of  fiction  and  travel  not  yet  seasoned 
from  the  dampness  of  the  press. 

Presently,  recollecting  that  she  was  now  in  a  wilderness 
given  over  to  mutton,  centipedes  and  privations,  the 
incongruity  of  these  luxuries  struck  her,  and,  with  intuitive 
feminine  suspicion,  she  began  turning  to  the  fly-leaves  of 
volume  after  volume.  Upon  each  one  was  inscribed  in 
fluent  characters  the  name  of  Theodore  Westlake,  Jr. 

Octavia,  fatigued  by  her  long  journey,  retired  early 
that  night.  Lying  upon  her  white,  cool  bed,  she  rested 
deliciously,  but  sleep  coquetted  long  with  her.  She 
listened  to  faint  noises  whose  strangeness  kept  her  faculties 
on  the  alert  —  the  fractious  yelping  of  the  coyotes,  the 
ceaseless,  low  symphony  of  the  wind,  the  distant  booming 
of  the  frogs  about  the  lake,  the  lamentation  of  a  concertina 
in  the  Mexicans'  quarters.  There  were  many  conflicting 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches       308 

feelings  in  her  heart  —  thankfulness  and  rebellion,  peace 
and  disquietude,  loneliness  and  a  sense  of  protecting  care, 
happiness  and  an  old,  haunting  pain. 

She  did  what  any  other  woman  would  have  done  - 
sought  relief  in  a  wholesome  tide  of  unreasonable  tears, 
and  her  last  words,  murmured  to  herself  before  slumber, 
capitulating,   came   softly   to   woo   her,   were,   "He   has 
forgotten." 

The  manager  of  the  Rancho  de  las  Sombras  was  no 
dilettante.  He  was  a  "hustler."  He  was  generally  up, 
mounted,  and  away  of  mornings  before  the  rest  of  the 
household  were  awake,  making  the  rounds  of  the  flocks 
and  camps.  This  was  the  duty  of  the  major-domo,  a 
stately  old  Mexican  with  a  princely  air  and  manner,  but 
Teddy  seemed  to  have  a  great  deal  of  confidence  in  his 
own  eyesight.  Except  in  the  busy  seasons,  he  nearly 
always  returned  to  the  ranch  to  breakfast  at  eight  o'clock, 
with  Octavia  and  Mrs.  Maclntyre,  at  the  little  table  set 
in  the  central  hallway,  bringing  with  him  a  tonic  and 
breezy  cheerfulness  full  of  the  health  and  flavour  of  the 
prairies. 

A  few  days  after  Octavia's  arrival  he  made  her  get  out 
one  of  her  riding  skirts,  and  curtail  it  to  a  shortness 
demanded  by  the  chaparral  brakes. 

With  some  misgivings  she  donned  this  and  the  pair  of 
buckskin  leggings  he  prescribed  in  addition,  and,  mounted 
upon  a  dancing  pony,  rode  with  him  to  view  her  posses 
sions.  He  showed  her  everything  —  the  flocks  of  ewes, 
muttons  and  grazing  lambs,  the  dipping  vats,  the  shearing 


304  Whirligigs 

pens,  the  uncouth  merino  rams  in  their  little  pasture,  the 
water-tanks    prepared    against    the    summer    drought  — 
giving  account  of  his  stewardship  with  a  boyish  enthus- 
siasm  that  never  flagged. 

Where  was  the  old  Teddy  that  she  knew  so  well  ?  This 
side  of  him  was  the  same,  and  it  was  a  side  that  pleased 
her;  but  this  was  all  she  ever  saw  of  him  now.  Where 
was  his  sentimentality  —  those  old,  varying  moods  of 
impetuous  love-making,  of  fanciful,  quixotic  devotion,  of 
heart-breaking  gloom,  of  alternating,  absurd  tenderness 
and  haughty  dignity?  His  nature  had  been  a  sensitive 
one,  his  temperament  bordering  closely  on  the  artistic. 
She  knew  that,  besides  being  a  follower  of  fashion  and  its 
fads  and  sports,  he  had  cultivated  tastes  of  a  finer  nature. 
He  had  written  things,  he  had  tampered  with  colours,  he 
was  something  of  a  student  in  certain  branches  of  art, 
and  once  she  had  been  admitted  to  all  his  aspirations  and 
thoughts.  But  now  —  and  she  could  not  avoid  the  con 
clusion  —  Teddy  had  barricaded  against  her  every  side 
of  himself  except  one  —  the  side  that  showed  the  manager 
of  the  Rancho  de  las  Sombras  and  a  jolly  chum  who  had 
forgiven  and  forgotten.  Queerly  enough  the  words  of 
Mr.  Bannister's  description  of  her  property  came  into 
her  mind  — "  all  inclosed  within  a  strong  barbed-wire 
fence." 

"Teddy's  fenced,  too,"  said  Octavia  to  herself. 

It  was  not  difficult  for  her  to  reason  out  the  cause  of 
his  fortifications.  It  had  originated  one  night  at  the 
Hammersmiths'  ball.  It  occurred  at  a  time  soon  after 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches       305 

she  had  decided  to  accept  Colonel  Beaupree  and  his 
million,  which  was  no  more  than  her  looks  and  the  entree 
she  held  to  the  inner  circles  were  worth.  Teddy  had 
proposed  with  all  his  impetuosity  and  fire,  and  she  looked 
him  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  said,  coldly  and  finally: 
"Never  let  me  hear  any  such  silly  nonsense  from  you 
again."  "  You  won't,"  said  Teddy,  with  a  new  expression 
around  his  mouth,  and  —  now  Teddy  was  inclosed 
within  a  strong  barbed -wire  fence. 

It  was  on  this  first  ride  of  inspection  that  Teddy  was 
seized  by  the  inspiration  that  suggested  the  name  of 
Mother  Goose's  heroine,  and  he  at  once  bestowed  it  upon 
Octavia.  The  idea,  supported  by  both  a  similarity  of 
names  and  identity  of  occupations,  seemed  to  strike  him 
as  a  peculiarly  happy  one,  and  he  never  tired  of  using  it. 
The  Mexicans  on  the  ranch  also  took  up  the  name,  adding 
another  syllable  to  accommodate  their  lingual  incapacity 
for  the  final  "  p,"  gravely  referring  to  her  as  "  La  Madama 
Bo-Peepy."  Eventually  it  spread,  and  "Madame  Bo- 
Peep's  ranch"  was  as  often  mentioned  as  the  "Rancho 
de  las  Sombras." 

Came  the  long,  hot  season  from  May  to  September, 
when  work  is  scarce  on  the  ranches.  Octavia  passed  the 
days  in  a  kind  of  lotus-eater's  dream.  Books,  hammocks, 
correspondence  with  a  few  intimate  friends,  a  renewed 
interest  in  her  old  water-colour  box  and  easel  —  these 
disposed  of  the  sultry  hours  of  daylight.  The  evenings 
were  always  sure  to  bring  enjoyment.  Best  of  all  were 
the  rapturous  horseback  rides  with  Teddy,  when  the  moon 


306  Whirligigs 

gave  light  over  the  wind-swept  leagues,  chaperoned  by 
the  wheeling  night-hawk  and  the  startled  owl.  Often  the 
Mexicans  would  come  up  from  their  shacks  with  their 
guitars  and  sing  the  weirdest  of  heart-breaking  songs. 
There  were  long,  cosy  chats  on  the  breezy  gallery,  and  an 
interminable  warfare  of  wits  between  Teddy  and  Mrs. 
Maclntyre,  whose  abundant  Scotch  shrewdness  often 
more  than  overmatched  the  lighter  humour  in  which  she 
was  lacking. 

And  the  nights  came,  one  after  another,  and  were  filed 
away  by  weeks  and  months  —  nights  soft  and  languorous 
and  fragrant,  that  should  have  driven  Strephon  to  Chloe 
over  wires  however  barbed,  that  might  have  drawn  Cupid 
himself  to  hunt,  lasso  in  hand,  among  those  amorous 
pastures  —  but  Teddy  kept  his  fences  up. 

One  July  night  Madame  Bo-Peep  and  her  ranch  man 
ager  were  sitting  on  the  east  gallery.  Teddy  had  been 
exhausting  the  science  of  prognostication  as  to  the  proba 
bilities  of  a  price  of  twenty-four  cents  for  the  autumn  clip, 
and  had  then  subsided  into  an  anaesthetic  cloud  of  Havana 
smoke.  Only  as  incompetent  a  judge  as  a  woman  would 
have  failed  to  note  long  ago  that  at  least  a  third  of  his 
salary  must  have  gone  up  in  the  fumes  of  those  imported 
Regalias. 

"Teddy,"  said  Octavia,  suddenly,  and  rather  sharply, 
"  what  are  you  working  down  here  on  a  ranch  for  ?  " 

"One  hundred  per,"  said  Teddy,  glibly,  "and  found." 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  discharge  you." 

"  Can't  do  it,"  said  Teddy,  with  a  grin. 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches       SOT 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Octavia,  with  argumentative 
heat. 

"  Under  contract.  Terms  of  sale  respect  all  unexpired 
contracts.  Mine  runs  until  12  P.  M.,  December  thirty-first. 
You  might  get  up  at  midnight  on  that  date  and  fire  me. 
If  you  try  it  sooner  I'll  be  in  a  position  to  bring  legal 
proceedings." 

Octavia  seemed  to  be  considering  the  prospects  of 
litigation. 

"But,"  continued  Teddy  cheerfully,  "I've  been  think 
ing  of  resigning  anyway." 

Octavia's  rocking-chair  ceased  its  motion.  There  were 
centipedes  in  this  country,  she  felt  sure;  and  Indians; 
and  vast,  lonely,  desolate,  empty  wastes;  all  within  strong 
barbed-wire  fence.  There  was  a  Van  Dresser  pride,  but 
there  was  also  a  Van  Dresser  heart.  She  must  know  for 
certain  whether  or  not  he  had  forgotten. 

"Ah,  well,  Teddy,"  she  said,  with  a  fine  assumption 
of  polite  interest,  "it's  lonely  down  here;  you're  longing 
to  get  back  to  the  old  life  —  to  polo  and  lobsters  and 
theatres  and  balls." 

"  Never  cared  much  for  balls,"  said  Teddy  virtuously. 

"You're  getting  old,  Teddy.  Your  memory  is  failing. 
Nobody  ever  knew  you  to  miss  a  dance,  unless  it  occurred 
on  the  same  night  with  another  one  which  you  attended. 
And  you  showed  such  shocking  bad  taste,  too,  in  dancing 
too  often  with  the  same  partner.  Let  me  see,  what  was 
that  Forbes  girl's  name  —  the  one  with  wall  eyes  — 
Mabel,  wasn't  it?" 


308  Whirligigs 

"No;  Adele.  Mabel  was  the  one  with  the  bony 
elbows.  That  wasn't  wall  in  Adele's  eyes.  It  was  soul. 
We  used  to  talk  sonnets  together,  and  Verlaine.  Just 
then  I  was  trying  to  run  a  pipe  from  the  Pierian  spring." 

"You  were  on  the  floor  with  her,"  said  Octavia,  unde- 
flected,  "five  times  at  the  Hammersmiths'." 

"  Hammersmiths'  what  ?  "  questioned  Teddy,  vacuously. 

"  Ball  —  ball,"  said  Octavia,  viciously.  "  What  were 
we  talking  of  ?  " 

"Eyes,  I  thought,"  said  Teddy,  after  some  reflection; 
"and  elbows." 

"Those  Hammersmiths,"  went  on  Octavia,  in  her 
sweetest  society  prattle,  after  subduing  an  intense  desire 
to  yank  a  handful  of  sunburnt,  sandy  hair  from  the  head 
lying  back  contentedly  against  the  canvas  of  the  steamer 
chair,  "  had  too  much  money.  Mines,  wasn't  it  ?  It  was 
something  that  paid  something  to  the  ton.  You  couldn't 
get  a  glass  of  plain  water  in  their  house.  Everything  at 
that  ball  was  dreadfully  overdone." 

"It  was,"  said  Teddy. 

"Such  a  crowd  there  was!"  Octavia  continued,  con 
scious  that  she  was  talking  the  rapid  drivel  of  a  school 
girl  describing  her  first  dance.  "The  balconies  were  as 
warm  as  the  rooms.  I  —  lost  —  something  at  that  ball." 
The  last  sentence  was  uttered  in  a  tone  calculated  to 
remove  the  barbs  from  miles  of  wire. 

"  So  did  I,"  confessed  Teddy,  in  a  lower  voice. 

"A  glove,"  said  Octavia,  falling  back  as  the  enemy 
approached  her  ditches. 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches       309 

"Caste,"  said  Teddy,  halting  his  firing  line  without 
loss.  "I  hobnobbed,  half  the  evening  with  one  of 
Hammersmith's  miners,  a  fellow  who  kept  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  talked  like  an  archangel  about  reduction 
plants  and  drifts  and  levels  and  sluice-boxes." 

"A  pearl-gray  glove,  nearly  new,"  sighed  Octavia, 
mournfully. 

"A  bang-up  chap,  that  McArdle,"  maintained  Teddy 
approvingly.  "A  man  who  hated  olives  and  elevators; 
a  man  who  handled  mountains  as  croquettes,  and  built 
tunnels  in  the  air;  a  man  who  never  uttered  a  word 
of  silly  nonsense  in  his  life.  Did  you  sign  those  lease- 
renewal  applications  yet,  madama?  They've  got  to  be 
on  file  in  the  land  office  by  the  thirty-first." 

Teddy  turned  his  head  lazily.  Octavia's  chair  was 
vacant. 

A  certain  centipede,  crawling  along  the  lines  marked 
out  by  fate,  expounded  the  situation.  It  was  early  one 
morning  while  Octavia  and  Mrs.  Maclntyre  were  trim 
ming  the  honeysuckle  on  the  west  gallery.  Teddy  had 
risen  and  departed  hastily  before  daylight  in  response 
to  word  that  a  flock  of  ewes  had  been  scattered  from  their 
bedding  ground  during  the  night  by  a  thunder-storm. 

The  centipede,  driven  by  destiny,  showed  himself  on 
the  floor  of  the  gallery,  and  then,  the  screeches  of  the  two 
women  giving  him  his  cue,  he  scuttled  with  all  his  yellow 
legs  through  the  open  door  into  the  furthermost  west 
room,  which  was  Teddy's.  Arming  themselves  with 


310  Whirligigs 

domestic  utensils  selected  with  regard  to  their  length, 
Octavia  and  Mrs.  Maclntyre,  with  much  clutching  of 
skirts  and  skirmishing  for  the  position  of  rear  guard  in 
the  attacking  force,  followed. 

Once  outside,  the  centipede  seemed  to  have  disappeared 
and   his   prospective   murderers   began   a   thorough   but 
cautious  search  for  their  victim. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  such  a  dangerous  and  absorbing 
adventure  Octavia  was  conscious  of  an  awed  curiosity 
on  finding  herself  in  Teddy's  sanctum.  In  that  room 
he  sat  alone,  silently  communing  with  those  secret  thoughts 
that  he  now  shared  with  no  one,  dreamed  there  whatever 
dreams  he  now  called  on  no  one  to  interpret. 

It  was  the  room  of  a  Spartan  or  a  soldier.  In  one 
corner  stood  a  wide,  canvas- covered  cot;  in  another,  a 
small  bookcase;  in  another,  a  grim  stand  of  Winchesters 
and  shotguns.  An  immense  table,  strewn  with  letters, 
papers  and  documents  and  surmounted  by  a  set  of  pigeon 
holes,  occupied  one  side. 

The  centipede  showed  genius  in  concealing  himself 
in  such  bare  quarters.  Mrs.  Maclntyre  was  poking  a 
broom-handle  behind  the  bookcase.  Octavia  approached 
Teddy's  cot.  The  room  was  just  as  the  manager  had  left 
it  in  his  hurry.  The  Mexican  maid  had  not  yet  given  it 
her  attention.  There  was  his  big  pillow  with  the  imprint 
of  his  head  still  in  the  centre.  She  thought  the  horrid 
beast  might  have  climbed  the  cot  and  hidden  itself  to  bite 
Teddy.  Centipedes  were  thus  cruel  and  vindictive 
toward  managers. 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches       311 

She  cautiously  overturned  the  pillow,  and  then  parted 
her  lips  to  give  the  signal  for  reinforcements  at  sight  of  a 
long,  slender,  dark  object  lying  there.  But,  repressing 
it  in  time,  she  caught  up  a  glove,  a  pearl-gray  glove, 
flattened  —  it  might  be  conceived  -  by  many,  many 
months  of  nightly  pressure  beneath  the  pillow  of  the  man 
who  had  forgotten  the  Hammersmiths'  ball.  Teddy 
must  have  left  so  hurriedly  that  morning  that  he  had,  for 
once,  forgotten  to  transfer  it  to  its  resting-place  by  day. 
Even  managers,  who  are  notoriously  wily  and  cunning, 
are  sometimes  caught  up  with. 

Octavia  slid  the  gray  glove  into  the  bosom  of  her  sum 
mery  morning  gown.  It  was  hers.  Men  who  put  them 
selves  within  a  strong  barbed-wire  fence,  and  remember 
Hammersmith  balls  only  by  the  talk  of  miners  about  sluice- 
boxes,  should  not  be  allowed  to  possess  such  articles. 

After  all,  what  a  paradise  this  prairie  country  was! 
How  it  blossomed  like  the  rose  when  you  found  things 
that  were  thought  to  be  lost!  How  delicious  was  that 
morning  breeze  coming  in  the  windows,  fresh  and  sweet 
with  the  breath  of  the  yellow  ratama  blooms !  Might  one 
not  stand,  for  a  minute,  with  shining,  far-gazing  eyes,  and 
dream  that  mistakes  might  be  corrected  ? 

Why  was  Mrs.  Maclntyre  poking  about  so  absurdly 
with  a  broom? 

"  I've  found  it,"  said  Mrs.  Maclntyre,  banging  the  door. 
"Here  it  is." 

"  Did  you  lose  something  ?  "  asked  Octavia,  with  sweetly 
polite  non-interest. 


312  Whirligigs 

"The  little  devil!"  said  Mrs.  Maclntyre,  driven  to 
violence.  "Ye've  no  forgotten  him  alretty?" 

Between  them  they  slew  the  centipede.  Thus  was  he 
rewarded  for  his  agency  toward  the  recovery  of  things 
lost  at  the  Hammersmiths'  ball. 

It  seems  that  Teddy,  in  due  course,  remembered  the 
glove,  and  when  he  returned  to  the  house  at  sunset  made 
a  secret  but  exhaustive  search  for  it.  Not  until  evening, 
upon  the  moonlit  eastern  gallery,  did  he  find  it.  It  was 
upon  the  hand  that  he  had  thought  lost  to  him  forever, 
and  so  he  was  moved  to  repeat  certain  nonsense  that  he 
had  been  commanded  never,  never  to  utter  again.  Teddy's 
fences  were  down. 

This  time  there  was  no  ambition  to  stand  in  the  way, 
and  the  wooing  was  as  natural  and  successful  as  should 
be  between  ardent  shepherd  and  gentle  shepherdess. 

The  prairies  changed  to  a  garden.  The  Rancho  de  las 
Sombras  became  the  Ranch  of  Light. 

A  few  days  later  Octavia  received  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Bannister,  in  reply  to  one  she  had  written  to  him  asking 
some  questions  about  her  business.  A  portion  of  the 
letter  ran  as  follows: 

"I  am  at  a  loss  to  account  for  your  references  to  the 
sheep  ranch.  Two  months  after  your  departure  to  take 
up  your  residence  upon  it,  it  was  discovered  that  Colonel 
Beaupree's  title  was  worthless.  A  deed  came  to  light 
showing  that  he  disposed  of  the  property  before  his  death. 
The  matter  was  reported  to  your  manager,  Mr.  Westlake, 
who  at  once  repurchased  the  property.  It  is  entirely 


Madame  Bo-Peep,  of  the  Ranches      313 

beyond  my  powers  of  conjecture  to  imagine  how  you  have 
remained  in  ignorance  of  this  fact.  I  beg  you  that  will 
at  once  confer  with  that  gentleman,  who  will,  at  least, 
corroborate  my  statement." 

Octavia  sought  Teddy,  with  battle  in  her  eye. 

"  What  are  you  working  on  this  ranch  for  ?  "  she  asked 
once  more. 

"One  hundred  — "  he  began  to  repeat,  but  saw  in  her 
face  that  she  knew.  She  held  Mr.  Bannister's  letter  in 
her  hand.  He  knew  that  the  game  was  up. 

"  It's  my  ranch,"  said  Teddy,  like  a  schoolboy  detected 
in  evil.  "It's  a  mighty  poor  manager  that  isn't  able  to 
absorb  the  boss's  business  if  you  give  him  time." 

"  Why  were  you  working  down  here  ?  "  pursued  Octavia, 
still  struggling  after  the  key  to  the  riddle  of  Teddy. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  'Tave,"  said  Teddy,  with  quiet 
candour,  "  it  wasn't  for  the  salary.  That  about  kept  me 
in  cigars  and  sunburn  lotions.  I  was  sent  south  by  my 
doctor.  'Twas  that  right  lung  that  was  going  to  the  bad 
on  account  of  over-exercise  and  strain  at  polo  and  gym 
nastics.  I  needed  climate  and  ozone  and  rest  and  things 
of  that  sort." 

In  an  instant  Octavia  was  close  against  the  vicinity 
of  the  affected  organ.  Mr.  Bannister's  letter  fluttered 
to  the  floor. 

"It's  —  it's  well  now,  isn't  it,  Teddy?" 

"Sound  as  a  mesquite  chunk.  I  deceived  you  in  one 
thing.  I  paid  fifty  thousand  for  your  ranch  as  soon  as 
I  found  you  had  no  title.  I  had  just  about  that  much 


314  Whirligigs 

income  accumulated  at  my  banker's  while  I've  been 
herding  sheep  down  here,  so  it  was  almost  like  picking  the 
thing  up  on  a  bargain-counter  for  a  penny.  There's 
another  little  surplus  of  unearned  increment  piling  up 
there,  'Tave.  I've  been  thinking  of  a  wedding  trip  in  a 
yacht  with  white  ribbons  tied  to  the  mast,  through  the 
Mediterranean,  and  then  up  among  the  Hebrides  and 
down  Norway  to  the  Zuyder  Zee." 

"And  I  was  thinking,"  said  Octavia,  softly,  "of  a 
wedding  gallop  with  my  manager  among  the  flocks  of 
sheep  and  back  to  a  wedding  breakfast  with  Mrs.  Mac- 
Intyre  on  the  gallery,  with,  maybe,  a  sprig  of  orange 
blossom  fastened  to  the  red  jar  above  the  table." 
Teddy  laughed,  and  began  to  chant: 

"Little   Bo-Peep   has   lost   her   sheep, 
And  doesn't  know  where  to  find  'em. 
Let  'em  alone,   and   they'll   come  home, 
And- 

Octavia  drew  his  head  down,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
But  that  is  one  of  the  tales  they  brought  behind  them. 

THE    END 


THK  GOUNTKY   LIFE   PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY.  H,  V. 


rr  r 


